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OF  THE 

U N IVERSITY 
Of  ILLINOIS 

823 
Ot  3tur 
1876 


V/*.'  ■'  ; 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/curateinchargenoOOolip 


COLLECTION 

OF 

BRITISH  AUTHORS 

TAUCHNITZ  EDITION. 

VOL.  1561. 

THE  CUEATE  IN  CHAEGE  BY  MES.  OLIPHANT. 

IN  ONE  YOLIIME, 


TAUCHNITZ  EDITION 


By  the  same  Author, 

The  Chronicles  of  Carlingford : 

THE  RECTOR  AND  THE  DOCTOr’s  FAMILY 

SALEM  CHAPEL  

THE  PERPETUAL  CURATE  

MISS  MARJORIBANKS 

PHOSBE,  JUNIOR  


THE  LAST  OF  THE  MOR- 


TLMERS 2 V. 

MARGARET  MAITLAND  . . 1 V. 

AGNES 2 V. 

MADONNA  MARY  . . . . 2 V. 

THE  minister’s  WIFE  . . 2 V. 

OMBRA 2 V. 

MEMOIR  OF  COUNT  DE  MON- 

TALEMBERT  . . . . 2 V. 

MAY 2 V. 

INNOCENT 2 V. 

FOR  LOVE  AND  LIFE  . . 2 V. 

A ROSE  IN  JUNE  , . . . 1 V. 

THE  STORY  OF  VALENTINE 

AND  HIS  BROTHER  . . 2 V. 

WHITELADIES 2 V. 

MRS.  ARTHUR 2 v. 

CARITA 2 V. 

YOUNG  MUSGRAVE  . . . 2 V. 

THE  PRIMROSE  PATH  . . 2 V. 


1 vol. 

2 vols. 
2 vols. 
2 vols. 
2 vols. 


WITHIN  THE  PRECINCTS  . 3 V. 
THE  GREATEST  HEIRESS  IN 

ENGLAND 2 V. 

HE  THAT  WILL  NOT  WHEN 

HE  MAY 2 V. 

HARRY  JOSCELYN  . . . 2 V. 

IN  TRUST 2 V. 

IT  WAS  A LOVER  & HIS  LASS  3 V. 
THE  LADIES  LINDORES  . . 3 V. 

HESTER 3 V. 

THE  wizard’s  son  . . r 3 V. 

A COUNTRY  GENTLEMAN 

AND  HIS  FAMILY  . . . 2 v. 

NEIGHBOURS  ON  THE  GREEN  1 v. 
THE  duke’s  DAUGHTER  . 1 V. 
THE  FUGITIVES  . . . . 1 V. 

KIRSTEEN 2 V. 

LIFE  OF  L.  OLIPHANT  . . 2 V. 

THE  LITTLE  PILGRIM  IN  THE 

UNSEEN 1 V. 


THE 


CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


BY 

MRS.  OLIPHANT, 

AUTHOR  OF  “chronicles  OF  CARLINGFORD ETC. 


COPYRIGHT  EDITION, 


LEIPZIG 

BERNHARD  TAUCHNITZ 

1876. 


The  Right  of  TranslatioJi  is  reserved. 


f;23 

Hib 


CONTENTS. 


T 

LO 

CJ> 

CHAPTER  I.  The  Parish 


— 

II. 

The  Previous  History  of  Mr.  St.  John 

— 

III. 

Aunt  Jane 

— 

IV. 

Miss  Brown 

*=c 

— 

V. 

The  Girls  at  School  ... 



VI. 

The  Girls  at  Home 

U.I 

n 

— 

VII. 

News 

..  j 

«:r 

— 

VIII. 

The  New  Rector  .... 

— 

IX. 

The  Enemy  ..... 

— 

X. 

In  the  Parish 

- 

XL 

Cicely’s  Appeal  .... 

d 

— 

XII. 

The  Parson’s  Round 

If 

— 

XIII. 

What  the  Girls  could  do 



XIV. 

How  to  exercise  Church  Patronage 

— 

XV. 

The  Artist  and  the  Housekeeper 

- 

XVI. 

Reality  ...... 

— 

XVII. 

The  Breaking  up  . 

— 

XVIII. 

d'he  Curate  leaves  Brentburn 

— 

XIX. 

The  Rector’s  Beginning 

_ 

XX. 

The  Parish  Schoolmistress 

I 

;4> 


Page 

7 

14 

27 

43 

55 

7t 

86 

105 

120 

137 

X55 

171 

188 

207 

220 

238 

250 

261 

277 

294 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  Parish. 

T HE  parish  of  Brentburn  lies  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  leafy  county  of  Berks.  It  is  curiously  situated 
on  the  borders  of  the  forest,  which  is  rich  as  Arden 
on  one  side,  and  on  the  edge  of  a moorland  coun- 
try abounding  in  pines  and  heather  on  the  other; 
so  that  in  the  course  of  a moderate  walk  the  way- 
farer can  pass  from  leafy  glades  and  luxuriant 
breadth  of  shadow,  great  wealthy  oaks  and  beeches, 
and  stately  chestnuts  such  as  clothe  Italian  hill- 
sides, to  the  columned  fir-trees  of  a Scotch  wood, 
all  aromatic  with  wild  fragrant  odours  of  the  moor 
and  peat-moss.  On  one  hand,  the  eye  and  the 
imagination  lose  themselves  in  soft  woods  where 
Orlando  might  hang  his  verses,  and  heavenly  Rosa- 
lind flout  her  lover.  On  the  other,  knee-deep  in 
rustling  heather  and  prickly  billows  of  the  gorse, 
the  spectator  looks  over  dark  undulations  of  pines, 
standing  up  in  countless  regiments,  each  line  and 
rank  marked  against  the  sky,  and  an  Ossianic  breeze 
making  wild  music  through  them.  At  the  corner, 
where  these  two  landscapes,  so  strangely  different, 


8 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


approach  each  other  most  closely,  stand  the  church 
and  rectory  of  Brentburn.  The  church,  I am  sorry 
to  say,  is  new  spick-and-span  nineteenth  century 
Gothic,  much  more  painfully  correct  than  if  it  had 
been  built  in  the  fourteenth  century,  as  it  would 
fain,  but  for  its  newness,  make  believe  to  be.  The 
rectory  is  still  less  engaging  than  the  church.  It  is 
of  red  brick,  and  the  last  rector,  so  long  as  he 
lived  in  it,  tried  hard  to  make  his  friends  believe 
that  it  was  of  Queen  Anne’s  time — that  last  dis- 
tinctive age  of  domestic  architecture;  but  he  knew 
very  well  all  the  while  that  it  was  only  an  ugly 
Georgian  house,  built  at  the  end  of  the  last  century. 
It  had  a carriage  entrance  with  the  ordinary  round 
sweep”  and  clump  of  laurels,  and  it  was  a good- 
sized  house,  and  comfortable  enough  in  a steady, 
ugly,  respectable  way.  The  other  side,  however, 
which  looked  upon  a large  garden  older  far  than 
itself,  where  mossed  apple-trees  stood  among  the 
vegetable  beds  in  the  distant  corners,  and  a deli- 
cious green  velvet  lawn,  soft  with  immemorial  turf, 
spread  before  the  windows,  was  pleasanter  than  the 
front  view.  There  was  a large  mulberry-tree  in 
the  middle  of  the  grass,  which  is  as  a patent  of 
nobility  to  any  lawn;  and  a few  other  trees  were 
scattered  about— a gnarled  old  thorn  for  one,  which 
made  the  whole  world  sweet  in  its  season,  and  an 
apple-tree  and  a cherry  at  the  further  corners,  which 
had,  of  course,  no  business  to  be  there.  The  high 
walls  were  clothed  with  fruit  trees,  a green  wavy 
lining,  to  their  very  top  — or  in  spring  rather  a 
mystic,  wonderful  drapery  of  white  and  pink  which 


THE  PARISH. 


9 


dazzled  all  beholders.  This,  I am  sorry  to  say,  at 
the  time  my  story  begins,  was  more  lovely  than 
profitable;  for,  indeed,  so  large  a garden  would 
have  required  two  gardeners  to  keep  it  in  perfect 
order,  while  all  it  had  was  the  chance  attentions  of 
a boy  of  all  work.  A door  cut  in  this  living  wall 
of  blossoms  led  straight  out  to  the  common,  which 
was  scarcely  less  sweet  in  spring;  and  a little  way 
above,  on  a higher  elevation,  was  the  church  sur- 
rounded by  its  graves.  Beyond  this,  towards  the 
south,  towards  the  forest,  the  wealthy,  warm  English 
side,  there  were  perhaps  a dozen  houses,  an  untidy 
shop,  and  the  post-office  called  Little  Brentburn, 
to  distinguish  it  from  the  larger  village,  which  was 
at  some  distance.  The  cottages  were  almost  all  old, 
but  this  hamlet  was  not  pretty.  Its  central  feature 
was  a duck-pond,  its  ways  were  muddy,  its  appear- 
ance squalid.  There  was  no  squire  in  the  parish 
to  keep  it  in  order,  no  benevolent  rich  proprietor, 
no  wealthy  clergyman;  and  this  brings  us  at  once 
to  the  inhabitants  of  the  rectory,  with  whom  we 
have  most  concern. 

The  rector  had  not  resided  in  the  parish  for  a 
long  time — between  fifteen  and  twenty  years.  It 
was  a college  living,  of  the  value  of  four  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  a year,  and  it  had  been  conferred 
upon  the  Rev.  Reginald  Chester,  who  was  a fellow 
of  the  college,  as  long  ago  as  the  time  I mention. 
Mr.  Chester  was  a very  good  scholar,  and  a man  of 
very  refined  tastes.  He  had  lived  in  his  rooms  at 
Oxford,  and  in  various  choice  regions  of  the  world, 
specially  in  France  and  Italy,  up  to  the  age  of 


lO  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

forty,  indulging  all  his  favourite  (and  quite  virtuous) 
tastes,  and  living  a very  pleasant  if  not  a very  use- 
ful life.  He  had  a little  fortune  of  his  own,  and  he 
had  his  fellowship,  and  was  able  to  keep  up  con- 
genial society,  and  to  indulge  himself  in  almost  all 
the  indulgences  he  liked.  Why  he  should  have 
accepted  the  living  of  Brentburn  it  would  be  hard 
to  say;  I suppose  there  is  always  an  attraction,  even 
to  the  most  philosophical,  in  a few  additional  hun- 
dreds a year.  He  took  it,  keeping  out  poor  Arling- 
ton, who  had  the  next  claim,  and  who  wanted 
to  marry,  and  longed  for  a country  parish.  Mr. 
Chester  did  not  want  to  marry,  and  hated  every- 
thing parochial;  but  he  took  the  living  all  the  same. 
He  came  to  live  at  Brentburn  in  the  beginning  of 
summer,  furnishing  the  house  substantially,  with 
Turkey  carpets,  and  huge  mountains  of  mahogany 
— for  the  science  of  furniture  had  scarcely  been 
developed  in  those  days;  and  for  the  first  few 
months,  having  brought  an  excellent  cook  with  him, 
and  finding  his  friends  in  town  quite  willing  to 
spend  a day  or  two  by  times  in  the  country,  and 
being  within  an  hour’s  journey  of  London,  he  got 
on  tolerably  well.  But  the  winter  was  a very  dif- 
ferent matter.  His  friends  no  longer  cared  to  come. 
There  was  good  hunting  to  be  sure,  but  Mr.  Chester’s 
friends  in  general  were  not  hunting  men,  and  the 
country  was  damp  and  rheumatic,  and  the  society 
more  agricultural  than  intellectual.  Then  his  cook, 
still  more  important,  mutinied.  She  had  never  been 
used  to  it,  and  her  kitchen  was  damp,  and  she  had 
no  means  of  improving  herself  ‘Tn  this  hole,”  as 


THE  PARISH. 


I I 

she  irreverently  called  the  rectory  of  Brentburn. 
Heroically,  in  spite  of  this,  in  spite  of  the  filthy 
roads,  the  complaints  of  the  poor,  an  indifferent 
cook,  and  next  to  no  society,  Mr.  Chester  held  out 
for  two  long  years.  The  damp  crept  on  him,  into 
his  very  bones.  He  got  incipient  rheumatism,  and 
he  had  a sharp  attack  of  bronchitis.  This  was  in 
spring,  the  most  dangerous  season  when  your  lungs 
are  weak;  and  in  Mr.  Chester’s  family  there  had  at 
one  time  been  a girl  who  died  of  consumption.  He 
was  just  at  the  age  when  men  are  most  careful  of 
their  lives,  when,  awaking  out  of  the  confidence  of 
youth,  they  begin  to  realize  that  they  are  mortal, 
and  one  day  or  other  must  die.  He  took  fright; 
he  consulted  a kind  physician,  who  was  quite  ready 
to  certify  that  his  health  required  Mentone  or  Spitz- 
bergen,  whichever  the  patient  wished;  and  then  Mr. 
Chester  advertised  for  a curate.  The  parish  was  so 
small  that  up  to  this  moment  he  had  not  had  any 
occasion  for  such  an  article.  He  got  a most 
superior  person,  the  Rev.  Cecil  St.  John,  who  was 
very  ready  and  happy  to  undertake  all  the  duties 
for  less  than  half  of  the  stipend.  Mr.  Chester  was 
a liberal  man  in  his  way.  He  let  Mr.  St.  John 
have  the  rectory  to  live  in,  and  the  use  of  all  his 
furniture,  except  his  best  Turkey  carpets,  which  it 
must  be  allowed  were  too  good  for  a curate;  and 
then,  with  heart  relieved,  he  took  his  way  into  the 
south  and  the  sunshine.  What  a relief  it  was!  He 
soon  got  better  at  Mentone,  and  went  on  to  more 
amusing  and  attractive  places;  but  as  it  was  on  ac- 
count of  his  health  that  he  had  got  rid  of  his 


12 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


parish,  consistency  required  that  he  should  con- 
tinue to  be  “delicate/^  Nothing  is  more  easy  than 
to  manage  this  when  one  has  money  enough  and 
nothing  to  do.  He  bought  a small  villa  near  Na- 
ples, with  the  best  possible  aspect,  sheltered  from 
the  east  wind.  He  became  a great  authority  on 
the  antiquities  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  in  this 
way  had  a constant  change  and  variety  of  the  very 
best  society.  He  took  great  care  of  himself;  was 
never  out  at  sunset,  avoided  the  sirocco,  and  took 
great  precautions  against  fever.  He  even  began  to 
plan  a book  about  Pompeii.  And  thus  the  years 
glided  by  quite  peacefully  in  the  most  refined  of 
occupations,  and  he  had  almost  forgotten  that  he 
ever  was  rector  of  Brentburn.  Young  fellows  of 
his  college  recollected  it  from  time  to  time,  and 
asked  querulously  if  he  never  meant  to  die.  ^‘You 
may  be  sure  he  will  never  die  if  he  can  help  it,^^ 
the  Provost  of  that  learned  community  replied, 
chuckling,  for  he  knew  his  man.  And  meantime 
Mr.  St.  John,  who  was  the  curate  in  charge,  settled 
down  and  made  himself  comfortable,  and  forgot 
that  he  was  not  there  in  his  own  right.  It  is  na- 
tural a man  should  feel  so  who  has  been  priest  of 
a parish  for  nearly  twenty  years. 

This  Mr.  St.  John  was  a man  of  great  tranquil- 
lity of  mind,  and  with  little  energy  of  disposition. 
Where  he  was  set  down  there  he  remained,  taking 
all  that  Providence  sent  him  very  dutifully,  without 
any  effort  to  change  what  might  be  objectionable 
or  amend  what  was  faulty;  nobody  could  be  more 
accomplished  than  he  was  in  the  art  of  putting  up 


THE  PARISH. 


13 


with’’  whatsoever  befell  him.  When  once  he  had 
been  established  anywhere,  only  something  from 
without  could  move  him — never  any  impulse  from 
within.  He  took  what  happened  to  him,  as  the 
birds  took  the  crumbs  he  threw  out  to  them,  with- 
out question  or  preference.  The  only  thing  in 
which  he  ever  took  an  initiative  was  in  kindness. 
He  could  not  bear  to  hurt  any  one’s  feelings,  to 
make  any  one  unhappy,  and  by  dint  of  his  sub- 
missiveness of  mind  he  was  scarcely  ever  unhappy 
himself.  The  poor  people  all  loved  him;  he  never 
could  refuse  them  anything,  and  his  reproofs  were 
balms  which  broke  no  man’s  head.  He  was  in- 
deed, but  for  his  sympathy,  more  like  an  object  in 
nature — a serene,  soft  hillside  touched  by  the  lights 
and  shadows  of  changeable  skies,  yet  never  really 
affected  by  them  except  for  the  moment — than  a 
suffering  and  rejoicing  human  creature. 

“On  a fair  landscape  some  have  looked 
And  felt,  as  I have  heard  them  say. 

As  if  the  fleeting  time  had  been 
A thing  as  steadfast  as  the  scene 

On  which  they  gazed  themselves  away.” 

This  was  the  effect  Mr.  St.  John  produced  upon 
his  friends  and  the  parish;  change  seemed  impos- 
sible to  him — and  that  he  could  die,  or  disappear, 
or  be  anything  different  from  what  he  was,  was  as 
hard  to  conceive  as  it  was  to  realize  that  distinct 
geological  moment  when  the  hills  were  all  in 
f^usion,  and  there  was  not  a tree  in  the  forest.  That 
this  should  be  the  case  in  respect  to  the  curate  in 
charge,  whose  position  was  on  sufferance,  and 
whom  any  accident  happening  to  another  old  man 


14  the  curate  in  charge. 

in  Italy,  or  any  caprice  of  that  old  man’s  fancy, 
could  sweep  away  out  of  the  place  as  if  he  had 
never  been,  gave  additional  quaintness  yet  power 
to  the  universal  impression.  Nobody  could  imagine 
what  Brentburn  would  be  like  without  Mr.  St.  John, 
and  he  himself  was  of  the  same  mind. 

At  the  period  when  this  story  commences  the 
curate  was  a widower  with  “two  families.”  He  had 
been  so  imprudent  as  to  marry  twice;  he  had  two 
daughters  grown  up,  who  were  coming  to  him,  but 
had  not  arrived,  and  he  had  two  little  baby  boys, 
whose  mother  had  recently  died.  But  how  this 
mother  and  these  boys  came  about,  to  Mr.  St.  John’s 
great  surprise — and  who  the  daughters  were  who 
were  coming  to  take  charge  of  him — I must  tell 
before  I go  on  any  further.  The  whole  episode  of 
his  second  marriage  was  quite  accidental  in  the 
curate’s  life. 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  Previous  History  of  Mr.  St.  John. 

The  Reverend  Cecil  St.  John  started  in  life,  not 
so  much  under  a false  impression  himself,  as  con- 
veying one  right  and  left  wherever  he  moved.  With 
such  a name  it  seemed  certain  that  he  must  be  a 
man  of  good  family,  well-connected  to  the  highest 
level  of  good  connections;  but  he  was  not.  I can- 
not tell  how  this  happened,  or  where  he  got  his 
name.  When  he  was  questioned  about  his  family 
he  declared  himself  to  have  no  relations  at  all. 
He  was  his  father’s  only  child,  and  his  father  had 


THE  PREVIOUS  HISTORY  OF  MR.  ST.  JOHN.  I 5 


been  some  one  else’s  only  child;  and  the  result  was 
that  he  had  nobody  belonging  to  him.  The  people 
at  Weston- on- Weir,  which  was  his  first  curacy,  had 
a tradition  that  his  grandfather  had  been  disowned 
and  disinherited  by  his  family  on  account  of  a 
romantic  marriage;  but  this,  I fear,  was  pure  fable 
invented  by  some  parish  authority  with  a lively 
imagination.  All  the  years  he  spent  at  Weston 
nobody,  except  an  old  pupil,  ever  asked  for  him; 
he  possessed  no  family  possessions,  not  even  an 
old  seal,  or  bit  of  china.  His  father  had  been  a 
curate  before  him,  and  was  dead  and  gone,  leaving 
no  ties  in  the  world  to  his  only  boy.  This  had 
happened  so  long  ago  that  Mr.  St.  John  had  long 
ceased  to  be  sad  about  it  before  he  came  to 
Weston,  and  though  the  ladies  there  were  very 
sorry  for  his  loneliness,  I am  not  sure  that  it  oc- 
curred to  himself  to  be  sorry.  He  was  used  to  it. 
He  had  stayed  in  Oxford  for  some  years  after  he 
took  his  degree,  working  with  pupils;  so  that  he 
was  about  five  and  thirty  when  he  took  his  first 
curacy,  moved,  I suppose,  by  some  sense  of  the 
monotony  of  an  unprogressive  life.  At  five  and 
thirty  one  has  ceased  to  feel  certain  that  every- 
thing must  go  well  with  one,  and  probably  it  oc- 
curred to  him  that  the  Church  would  bring  repose 
and  quiet,  which  he  loved,  and  possibly  some 
quiet  promotion.  Therefore  he  accepted  the  curacy 
of  Weston-on-Weir,  and  got  lodgings  in  Mrs. 
Joyce^s,  and  settled  there.  The  parish  was  some- 
what excited  about  his  coming,  and  many  people  at 
first  entertained  the  notion  that  his  proper  title  was 


i6 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


Honourable  and  Reverend.  But,  alas!  that  turned 
out,  as  I have  said,  a delusion.  Still,  without  the 
honourable,  such  a name  as  that  of  Cecil  St.  John 
was  enough  to  flutter  a parish,  and  did  so.  Even 
the  sight  of  him  did  not  dissipate  the  charm,  for  he 
was  handsome,  very  tall,  slight,  serious,  and 
interesting.  ‘‘Like  a young  widower,’^  some  of  the 
ladies  thought;  others,  more  romantic,  felt  that  he 
must  have  a history,  must  have  sustained  a blight; 
but  if  he  had,  he  never  said  anything  about  it,  and 
settled  down  to  his  duties  in  a calm  matter-of- 
fact  sort  of  way,  as  if  his  name  had  been  John 
Smith. 

Everybody  who  knows  Weston-on-Weir  is  aware 
that  Mrs.  Joyce’s  cottage  is  very  near  the  vicarage. 
The  vicar,  Mr.  May  dew,  was  an  old  man,  and  all 
but  incapable  of  work,  which  was  the  reason  why 
he  kept  a curate.  He  was  a popular  vicar,  but  a 
selfish  man,  whose  family  had  always  been  swayed 
despotically  by  his  will,  though  scarcely  any  of 
them  were  aware  of  it,  for  his  iron  hand  was  hidden 
in  the  velvetest  of  gloves,  and  all  the  Maydews 
were  devoted  to  their  father.  He  had  sent  one  son 
to  India,  where  he  died,  and  another  to  Australia, 
where  he  had  been  lost  for  years.  His  eldq^t 
daughter  had  married  a wealthy  person  in  Man- 
chester, but  had  died  too,  at  an  early  age,  for  none 
of  them  were  strong;  thus  his  youngest  daughter, 
Hester,  was  the  only  one  left  to  him.  Her  he 
could  not  spare;  almost  from  her  cradle  he  had 
seen  that  this  was  the  one  to  be  his  companion  in 
his  old  age,  and  inexorably  he  had  guarded  her  for 


THE  PREVIOUS  HISTORY  OF  MR.  ST.  JOHN.  I 7 


this  fate.  No  man  had  ever  been  allowed  to  ap- 
proach Hester,  in  whose  eyes  any  gleam  of  admira- 
tion or  kindness  for  her  had  appeared.  It  had 
been  tacitly  understood  all  along  that  she  was 
never  to  leave  her  father,  and  as  he  was  very  kind 
in  manner,  Hester  accepted  the  lot  with  en- 
thusiasm, and  thought  it  was  her  own  choice,  and 
that  nothing  could  ever  tempt  her  to  abandon 
him.  What  was  to  become  of  her  when  her  father 
had  left  her,  Hester  never  asked  herself,  and  neither 
did  the  old  man,  who  was  less  innocent  in  his 
thoughtlessness.  “Something  will  turn  up  for 
Hester,’^  he  said  in  his  cheerful  moods,  and  “the 
Lord  will  provide  for  so  good  a daughter,”  he  said 
in  his  solemn  ones.  But  he  acted  as  if  it  were  no 
concern  of  his,  and  so,  firm  in  doing  the  duty  that 
lay  nearest  her  hand,  did  she,  which  was  less  won- 
derful. Hester  had  lived  to  be  thirty  when  Mr. 
St.  John  came  to  Weston.  She  was  already  called 
an  old  maid  by  the  young  and  gay,  and  even  by 
the  elder  people  about.  She  was  almost  pretty  in 
a quiet  way,  though  many  people  thought  her  quite 
plain.  She  had  a transparent,  soft  complexion, 
not  brilliant,  but  pure;  soft  brown  eyes,  very  kind 
and  tender;  fine  silky  brown  hair,  and  a trim 
figure;  but  no  features  to  speak  of,  and  no  style, 
and  lived  contented  in  the  old  rotten  tumble-down 
vicarage,  doing  the  same  thing  every  day  at  the 
same  hour  year  after  year,  serving  her  father  and 
the  parish,  attending  all  the  church  services,  visiting 
the  schools  and  the  sick  people.  I hope  good 
women  who  live  in  this  dutiful  routine  get  to  like 

The  Curate  in  Charge.  2 


i8 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


it,  and  find  a happiness  in  the  thought  of  so  much 
humble  handmaiden^s  work  performed  so  steadily; 
but  to  the  profane  and  the  busy  it  seems  hard  thus 
to  wear  away  a life. 

When  Mr.  St.  John  came  to  the  parish  it  was 
avowedly  to  relieve  old  Mr.  Maydew  of  the  duty, 
not  to  help  him  in  it.  Now  and  then  the  old  vicar 
would  show  on  a fine  day,  and  preach  one  of  his 
old  sermons;  but,  except  for  this,  everything  was 
left  to  Mr.  St.  John.  He  was  not,  however,  al- 
lowed on  that  account  to  rule  the  parish.  He  had 
to  go  and  come  constantly  to  the  vicarage  to  re- 
ceive directions,  or  advice  which  was  as  imperative ; 
and  many  a day  walked  to  church  or  into  the  vil- 
lage with  Miss  Hester,  whom  nobody  ever  called 
Miss  Maydew,  though  she  had  for  years  had  a right 
to  the  name.  The  result,  which  some  people 
thought  very  natural,  and  some  people  quite  ab- 
surd, soon  followed.  Quietly,  gradually,  the  two 
fell  in  love  with  each  other.  There  were  people  in 
the  parish  who  were  quite  philanthropically  in- 
dignant when  they  heard  of  it,  and  very  anxious 
that  Mr.  St.  John  should  be  undeceived,  if  any  idea 
of  Hester  Maydew  having  money  was  in  his 
thoughts.  But  they  might  have  spared  themselves 
the  trouble.  Mr.  St.  John  was  not  thinking  of 
money.  He  was  not  even  thinking  of  marriage.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  to  make  any  violent  opposi- 
tion, when  Hester  informed  him,  timidly,  fearing  I 
know  not  what  demonstration  of  lover-like  im- 
patience, of  her  promise  never  to  leave  her  father. 
He  was  willing  to  wait.  To  spend  every  evening 


THE  PREVIOUS  HISTORY  OF  MR.  ST.  JOHN,  IQ 

In  the  vicarage,  to  see  her  two  or  three  times  a 
day,  going  and  coming;  to  consult  her  on  every- 
thing, and  inform  her  of  everything  that  happened 
to  him,  was  quite  enough  for  the  curate.  He  used 
to  tell  her  so;  while  Hester’s  heart,  wrung  with 
pleasure  and  pain  together,  half  stood  still  with 
wonder,  not  knowing  how  a man  could  bear  it,  yet 
glad  he  should.  How  much  there  is  in  the  hearts 
of  such  good  women  which  never  can  come  into 
words!  She  had  in  her  still  soul  a whole  world  of 
ideal  people — the  ideal  man  as  well  as  the  ideal 
woman — and  her  ideal  man  would  not  have  been 
content.  Yet  he  was,  and  she  was  glad;  or  rather 
I should  say  thankful,  which  is  a different  feeling. 
And  thus  they  went  on  for  ten  years.  Ten  years! 
an  eternity  to  look  forward  to — a lifetime  to  look 
back  upon;  yet  slipping  away  so  softly,  day  upon 
day,  that  Mr.  St.  John  at  least  never  realized  the 
passage  of  time.  He  was  a very  good  clergyman, 
very  kind  to  the  poor  people  and  to  the  children, 
very  ready  to  be  of  service  to  any  one  who  wanted 
his  services,  seeking  no  diversion  or  ease  except 
to  go  down  to  the  vicarage  in  the  evening  by  that 
path  which  his  patient  feet  had  made,  to  play  back- 
gammon with  the  vicar  and  talk  to  Hester.  I can- 
not see,  for  my  part,  why  they  should  not  have 
married,  and  occupied  the  vicarage  together;  but 
such  an  arrangement  would  not  have  suited  Mr. 
Maydew,  and  Hester  was  well  aware  of  the  impos- 
sibility of  serving  two  masters.  So  year  came  after 
year,  and  hour  after  hour,  as  if  there  were  no 
changes  in  human  existence,  but  everything  was  as 

3* 


20 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


steady  and  immovable  as  the  surface  of  that  tranquil 
rural  world. 

When  Mr.  Maydew  died  at  last  it  was  quite  a 
shock  to  the  curate;  and  then  it  was  evident  that 
something  must  be  done.  They  hoped  for  a little 
while  that  Lord  Weston  might  have  given  the  liv- 
ing to  Mr.  St.  John,  who  was  so  much  beloved  in 
the  parish;  but  it  had  been  promised  years  before 
to  his  old  tutor,  and  there  was  an  end  of  that  ex- 
pectation. I think  Hester  had  almost  come  to 
doubt  whether  her  curate  had  energy  to  marry  her 
when  she  was  thus  set  free;  but  there  she  did  him 
injustice.  Though  he  had  not  a notion  how  they 
were  to  live,  he  would  have  married  her  on  the 
spot  had  decorum  permitted.  It  was  some  time, 
however,  before  he  heard  of  anything  which  would 
justify  them  in  marrying.  He  had  little  interest 
out  of  the  parish,  and  was  shy  of  asking  anything 
from  the  few  people  he  did  know.  When  they 
were  told  of  Brentburn,  and  the  rector’s  bad  health, 
they  both  felt  it  a special  providence  that  Mr. 
Chester’s  lungs  should  be  weak.  There  was  the 
rectory  to  live  in,  and  two  hundred  pounds  a year, 
which  seemed  a fortune  to  them  both;  and  they 
married  upon  it  with  as  much  confidence  as  if  it 
had  been  two  thousand.  They  were  almost  old 
people  when  they  set  off  from  the  little  church  at 
Weston  bride  and  bridegroom;  yet  very  young  in 
the  tranquillity  of  their  souls.  Mr.  St.  John  was 
thoroughly  happy — not  much  more  happy  indeed 
than  when  he  had  walked  down  across  the  grass  to 
the  vicarage — but  not  less  so;  and  if  Hester  felt  a 


THE  PREVIOUS  HISTORY  OF  MR.  ST.  JOHN.  21 


thrill  of  disappointment  deep  down  in  her  heart  at 
his  calm,  she  loved  him  all  the  same,  and  knew  his 
goodness,  and  was  happy  too.  She  was  a woman 
of  genius  in  her  way  — not  poetical  or  literary 
genius — but  that  which  is  as  good,  perhaps  better. 
She  managed  to  live  upon  her  two  hundred  a year 
as  few  of  us  can  do  upon  three  or  four  times  the 
sum.  Waste  was  impossible  to  her;  and  want  ap- 
peared as  impossible.  She  guided  her  house  as — 
well,  as  only  genius  can — without  any  pitiful 
economies,  without  any  undue  sparing,  making  a 
kind,  warm,  beneficent,  living  house  of  it,  and  yet 
keeping  within  her  income.  I don’t  pretend  to 
know  how  she  did  it,  any  more  than  I can  tell  you 
how  Shakespeare  wrote  Hamlet,  It  was  quite  easy 
to  him — and  to  her;  but  if  one  knew  how,  one 
would  be  as  great  a poet  as  he  was,  as  great  an 
economist  as  she.  Mr.  St.  John  was  perfectly 
happy;  perhaps  even  a little  more  happy  than  when 
he  used  to  walk  nightly  to  her  father’s  vicarage. 
The  thought  that  he  was  only  curate  in  charge, 
and  that  his  rector  might  get  better  and  come 
back,  or  get  worse  and  die,  never  troubled  his 
peace.  Why  should  not  life  always  go  as  it  was 
doing?  why  should  anything  ever  happen?  Now 
and  then  he  would  speak  of  the  vicissitudes  of 
mortal  existence  in  his  placid  little  sermons;  but  he 
knew  nothing  of  them,  and  believed  still  less.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  this  soft  tranquillity,  this  sober 
happiness  was  fixed  like  the  pillars  of  the  earth, 
and  would  never  come  to  an  end. 

Nor  is  it  possible  to  tell  how  it  was,  that  to 


22 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


this  quiet  pair  two  such  restless  atoms  of  humanity 
as  the  two  girls  whose  story  is  to  be  told  here 
should  have  been  born.  Hester’s  old  nurse,  indeed, 
had  often  been  heard  to  tell  fabulous  stories  of  the 
energy  and  animation  of  her  young  mistress  in  the 
days  of  her  youth,  but  these  had  always  been  be- 
lieved in  Weston  to  be  apocryphal.  The  appear- 
ance of  her  children,  however,  gave  some  semblance 
of  truth  to  the  tale.  They  were  the  most  living 
creatures  in  all  the  parish  of  Brentburn.  These 
two  children,  from  the  time  they  were  born,  were 
ready  for  anything  — nothing  daunted  them  or 
stilled  them — they  did  not  know  what  fear  was. 
Sometimes  there  passed  through  the  mind  of  their 
mother  a regret  that  they  were  not  boys:  but  then 
she  would  think  of  her  husband  and  the  regret  was 
never  expressed.  Their  very  vitality  and  activity 
made  them  easy  to  train,  and  she  taught  them, 
poor  soul,  and  spent  her  strength  upon  them  as  if 
she  knew  what  was  coming.  She  taught  them  her 
own  household  ways,  and  her  economy  as  far  as 
children  could  learn  it,  and  to  read  and  write,  and 
their  notes  on  the  old  piano.  This  was  all  she 
had  time  for.  She  died  when  Cicely  was  twelve 
and  Mab  eleven.  God  help  us!  what  it  must  be 
when  a woman  has  to  consent  to  die  and  leave  her 
little  children  to  fight  their  own  way  through  this 
hard  world,  who  can  venture  to  tell?  For  my 
part,  I cannot  so  much  as  think  of  it.  Something 
comes  choking  in  one’s  throat,  climbing  like  Lear’s 
hysterica  passio.  Ah,  God  help  us  indeed!  to  think 
of  it  is  terrible,  to  do  it Poor  Hester  had  to 


THE  PREVIOUS  HISTORY  OF  MR.  ST.  JOHN.  23 

accept  this  lot  and  cover  her  face  and  go  away, 
leaving  those  two  to  make  what  they  could  of  their 
life.  Her  death  stupefied  Mr.  St.  John.  He  could 
not  believe  it,  could  not  understand  it.  It  came 
upon  him  like  a thunderbolt,  incredible,  impossible; 
yet,  to  be  sure,  he  had  to  put  up  with  it  like  other 
men.  And  so  tranquil  was  his  soul  that  by-and-by 
he  quite  learned  to  put  up  with  it,  and  grew  calm 
again,  and  made  himself  a path  across  the  common 
to  the  churchyard  gate  which  led  to  her  grave,  just 
as  he  had  made  himself  a path  to  her  father’s 
door.  Everything  passes  away  except  human  cha- 
racter and  individuality,  which  outlive  all  convul- 
sions. The  parish  of  Brentburn,  which  like  him 
was  stupefied  for  the  moment,  could  not  contain 
its  admiration  when  it  was  seen  how  beautifully  he 
bore  it — “Like  a true  Christian,”  the  people  said 
— like  himself  I think;  and  he  was  a good  Chris- 
tian, besides  being  so  placid  a man. 

The  two  children  got  over  it  too  in  the  course 
of  nature;  they  had  passions  of  childish  anguish, 
unspeakable  dumb  longings  which  no  words  could 
utter;  and  then  were  hushed  and  stilled,  and  after 
a while  were  happy  again;  life  must  defend  itself 
with  this  natural  insensibility  or  it  could  not  be 
life  at  all.  And  Mr.  St.  John’s  friends  and  parish- 
ioners were  very  kind  to  him,  especially  in  the 
matter  of  advice,  of  which  he  stood  much  in  need. 
His  “plans”  and  what  he  should  do  were  debated 
in  every  house  in  the  parish  before  poor  Hester 
was  cold  in  her  grave;  and  the  general  conclusion 
which  was  almost  unanimously  arrived  at  was — a 


24 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


governess.  A governess  was  the  right  thing  for 
him,  a respectable,  middle-aged  person  who  would 
have  no  scheme  for  marrying  in  her  head — not  a 
person  of  great  pretensions,  but  one  who  would 
take  entire  charge  of  the  girls  (whom  their  mother, 
poor  soul,  had  left  too  much  to  themselves),  and 
would  not  object  to  give  an  eye  to  the  house- 
keeping— of  ladylike  manners,  yet  perhaps  not  quite 
a lady  either,  lest  she  might  object  to  the  homelier 
offices  cast  upon  her.  Mrs.  Ascott,  of  the  Heath, 
happened  to  know  exactly  the  right  person,  the 
very  thing  for  poor  Mr.  St.  John  and  his  girls.  And 
Mr.  St.  John  accepted  the  advice  of  the  ladies  of 
the  parish  with  gratitude,  confessing  piteously  that 
he  did  not  at  all  know  what  to  do.  So  Miss  Brown 
arrived  six  months  after  Mrs.  St.  John’s  death.  She 
was  not  too  much  of  a lady.  She  was  neither  old 
nor  young,  she  was  subject  to  neuralgia;  her  com- 
plexion and  her  eyes  were  grey,  like  her  dress,  and 
she  had  no  pretensions  to  good  looks.  But  with 
these  little  drawbacks,  which  in  her  position  every- 
body argued  were  no  drawbacks  at  all,  but  rather 
advantages,  she  was  a good  woman,  and  though 
she  did  not  understand  them,  she  was  kind  to  the 
girls.  Miss  Brown,  however,  was  not  in  any  respect 
a woman  of  genius,  and  even  had  she  been  so  her 
gifts  would  have  been  neutralized  by  the  fact  that 
she  was  not  the  mistress  of  the  house,  but  only  the 
governess.  The  maid  who  had  worked  so  well 
under  Hester  set  up  pretensions  to  be  housekeeper 
too,  and  called  herself  the  cook,  and  assumed  airs 
which  Miss  Brown  got  the  better  of  with  great  dif- 


THE  PREVIOUS  HISTORY  OF  MR.  ST.  JOHN.  25 

ficulty;  and  the  aspect  of  the  house  changed.  Now 
and  then  indeed  a crisis  arrived  which  troubled 
Mr.  St.  John’s  peace  of  mind  very  much,  when  he 
was  appealed  to  by  one  side  or  the  other.  But  yet 
the  life  of  the  household  had  been  so  well  or- 
ganized that  it  went  on  tant  Men  que  mal  for  several 
years.  And  the  two  girls  grew  healthy,  and  hand- 
some, and  strong.  Miss  Brown  did  her  very  best 
for  them.  She  kept  them  down  as  much  as  she 
could,  which  she  thought  was  her  duty,  and  as 
what  she  could  do  in  this  way  was  but  small,  the 
control  she  attained  to  was  an  unmixed  advantage 
to  them.  Poor  Hester  had  called  her  eldest  child 
Cecil,  after  her  father,  with  a touch  of  tender  senti- 
ment; but  use  and  fondness,  and  perhaps  a sense 
that  the  more  romantic  appellation  sounded  some- 
what weak-minded,  had  long  ago  improved  it  into 
Cicely.  Mabel  got  her  name  from  a similar  motive, 
because  it  was  pretty.  It  was  the  period  when 
names  of  this  class  came  into  fashion,  throwing  the 
old-fashioned  Janes  and  Elizabeths  into  temporary 
eclipse;  but  as  the  girls  grew  up  and  it  came  to  be 
impossible  to  connect  her  with  any  two-syllabled  or 
dignified  word,  the  name  lent  itself  to  abbreviation 
and  she  became  Mab.  They  were  both  pretty  girls. 
Cicely  had  her  mother’s  softness,  Mab  her  father’s 
more  regular  beauty.  They  spent  their  lives  in  the 
pure  air,  in  the  woods,  which  were  so  close  at 
hand,  in  the  old-fashioned  garden  which  they  partly 
cultivated,  or,  when  they  could  get  so  far,  on  those 
bleaker  commons  and  pine  forests,  where  the 
breezes  went  to  their  young  heads  like  wine.  Miss 


26 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


Brown’s  friends  in  the  parish  ‘‘felt  for  her”  with 
two  such  wild  creatures  to  manage;  and  she  oc- 
casionally “felt  for”  herself,  and  sighed  with  a 
gentle  complacency  to  think  of  the  “good  work” 
she  was  doing.  But  I don’t  think  she  found  her 
task  so  hard  as  she  said.  The  girls  did  not  look 
up  to  her,  but  they  looked  very  kindly  down  upon 
her,  which  came  to  much  the  same  thing,  taking 
care  with  youthful  generosity  not  to  let  her  see  how 
much  insight  they  had,  or  how  they  laughed  be- 
tween themselves  at  her  mild  little  affectations. 
Children  are  terribly  sharp-sighted,  and  see  through 
these  innocent  pretences  better  than  we  ourselves 
do.  They  took  care  of  her  often  when  she  thought 
she  was  taking  care  of  them;  and  yet  they  learned 
the  simple  lessons  she  gave  them  with  something 
like  pleasure;  for  their  natures  were  so  vigorous 
and  wholesome  that  even  the  little  tedium  was 
agreeable  as  a change.  And  for  their  father  they 
entertained  a kind  of  half- contemptuous — nay,  the 
word  is  too  hard — a kind  of  condescending  wor- 
ship. He  was  a god  to  them,  but  a god  who  was 
very  helpless,  who  could  do  little  for  himself,  who 
was  inferior  to  them  in  all  practical  things,  though 
more  good,  more  kind,  more  handsome,  more 
elevated  than  any  other  mortal.  This  was,  on  the 
whole,  rather  safe  ground  for  two  such  active- 
minded  young  persons.  They  were  prepared  to 
see  him  do  foolish  things  now  and  then.  It  was 
“papa’s  way,”  which  they  accepted  without  criticism, 
smiling  to  one  another,  but  in  their  minds  he  was 
enveloped  in  a sort  of  feeble  divinity,  a being  in 


AUNT  JANE. 


27 


whom  certain  weaknesses  were  understood,  but 
whose  pedestal  of  superiority  no  other  human 
creature  could  approach.  Thus  things  went  on  till 
Cicely  was  fifteen,  when  important  changes  took 
place  in  their  lives,  and  still  more  especially  in  their 
father’s  life. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Aunt  Jane. 

The  St.  Johns  had  one  relative,  and  only  one, 
so  far  as  they  knew.  This  was  Miss  Jane  Maydew, 
who  lived  in  London,  the  aunt  of  their  mother,  a 
lady  who  possessed  in  her  own  right — but,  alas, 
only  in  the  form  of  an  annuity — the  magnificent 
income  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a year.  To 
think  that  this  old  lady,  with  only  herself  to  think 
of,  should  have  fifty  pounds  more  yearly  than  a 
clergyman  with  a family,  and  all  the  parish  looking 
to  him!  More  than  once  this  idea  had  crossed 
even  Hester’s  mind,  though  she  was  very  reasonable 
and  could  make  her  pounds  go  further  than  most 
people.  Miss  Maydew  was  not  very  much  older 
than  her  niece,  but  yet  she  was  an  old  lady,  sixty- 
five,  or  thereabouts.  She  liked  her  little  comforts 
as  well  as  most  people,  yet  she  had  laid  by  fifty 
pounds  of  her  income  for  the  last  twenty  years, 
with  the  utmost  regularity.  A thousand  pounds  is 
a pretty  little  sum  of  money,  but  it  does  not  seem 
much  to  account  for  twenty  years  of  savings.  A 


28 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


stockbroker  might  make  it  easily  in  a morning  by 
a mere  transfer  from  one  hand  to  another;  and 
to  think  how  much  wear  and  tear  of  humanity 
can  be  in  it  on  the  other  hand!  It  is  discouraging 
to  poor  economists  to  feel  how  little  they  can  do, 
labour  as  they  may;  but  I don't  think  Miss  Maydew 
had  anything  of  this  feeling.  She  was  on  the  con- 
trary very  proud  of  her  thousand  pounds.  It  was 
her  own  creation,  she  had  made  it  out  of  nothing; 
and  the  name  of  it,  a thousand  pounds!  was  as  a 
strain  of  music  in  her  ears,  like  the  name  of  a 
favourite  child.  Perhaps  it  was  the  completion  of 
this  beautiful  sum,  rounded  and  finished  like  a 
poem,  which  gave  her  something  of  that  satisfaction 
and  wish  for  repose  which  follows  the  completion 
of  every  great  work;  and  this  brought  about  her 
visit  to  Brentburn,  and  all  that  directly  and  in- 
directly followed  it.  She  had  not  seen  the  St. 
Johns  since  Hester's  death,  though  they  were  her 
nearest  relatives,  the  natural  heirs  of  the  fortune 
she  had  accumulated.  And  the  summer  was  warm- 
ing into  June,  and  everything  spoke  of  the  country. 
Miss  Maydew  lived  in  Great  Coram  Street,  Russell 
Square.  She  had  two  charming  large  rooms,  her 
bedroom  at  the  back,  her  sitting-room  at  the  front, 
the  two  drawing-rooms  in  better  days  of  the  com- 
fortable Bloomsbury  mansion.  But  even  when  your 
rooms  are  airy  and  cool,  it  is  hard  to  fight  against 
that  sense  of  summer  which  drops  into  a London 
street  in  the  warm  long  days,  waking  recollections 
of  all  kinds,  making  eyelids  drowsy,  and  the  imagina- 
tion work.  Even  the  cries  in  the  street,  the  “flowers 


• AUNT  JANE. 


29 


a blowing  and  a growing”  of  the  costermongers, 
the  first  vegetables,  the  ‘‘groundsel  for  your  birds,” 
and  the  very  sight  of  the  greengrocer  opposite  with 
his  groves  of  young  cabbages  and  baskets  of  young 
potatoes  awoke  this  sensation  of  summer  in  the 
heart  of  the  solitary  woman  at  her  window.  Her 
youth,  which  was  so  full  of  summer,  stirred  in  her 
once  more,  and  old  scenes  all  framed  in  waving 
foliage  of  trees  and  soft  enclosures  of  greensward, 
came  before  her  closed  eyes  as  she  dozed  through 
the  long  long  sunny  afternoon.  A frugal  old  maiden, 
lodging  in  two  rooms  in  a noisy  Bloomsbury  street, 
and  saving  fifty  pounds  a year,  is  as  little  safe  as 
any  poet  from  such  visitations.  As  she  sat  there 
musing  in  that  strange  confusion  of  mind  which 
makes  one  wonder  sometimes  whether  the  things  one 
recollects  ever  were,  or  were  merely  a dream,  Hester 
and  Hester’s  children  came  into  Miss  Maydew’s 
mind.  She  had  not  seen  them  since  her  niece’s 
death,  and  what  might  have  become  of  the  poor 
children  left  with  that  incapable  father?  This 
thought  simmered  in  her  fancy  for  a whole  week, 
then  suddenly  one  morning  when  it  was  finer  than 
ever,  and  the  very  canaries  sang  wildly  in  their 
cages,  and  the  costermongers’  cries  lost  all  their 
hoarseness  in  the  golden  air,  she  took  the  decided 
step  of  going  off  to  the  railway  and  taking  a ticket 
for  Brentburn.  It  was  not  very  far,  an  hour’s  journey 
only,  and  there  was  no  need  to  take  any  luggage 
with  her,  as  she  could  return  the  same  night;  so 
the  excursion  was  both  cheap  and  easy,  as  mild  an 
extravagance  as  heart  could  desire. 


30 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


The  air  was  full  of  the  wild  sweet  freshness  of 
the  pines  as  she  landed  on  the  edge  of  the  com- 
mon; the  seed  pods  on  the  gorse  bushes  were 
crackling  in  the  heat,  the  ragged  hedges  on  the 
roadside  hung  out  long  pennons  of  straggling 
branches,  blossomed  to  the  very  tips  with  wild 
roses  delicately  sweet.  Miss  Maydew  was  not  long 
in  encountering  the  objects  of  her  interest.  As  she 
went  along  to  the  rectory,  carrying  her  large  brown 
sunshade  open  in  one  hand,  and  her  large  white 
pocket-handkerchief  to  fan  herself  in  the  other,  her 
ears  and  her  eyes  were  alike  attracted  by  a little 
group,  under  the  shadow  of  a great  tree  just  where 
the  gorse  and  the  pines  ended.  There  were  two 
tall  girls  in  print  frocks  of  the  simplest  character, 
and  large  hats  of  coarse  straw;  and  seated  on  the 
root  of  the  tree  slightly  raised  above  them,  a plain 
little  woman  in  a brown  gown.  Some  well  worn 
volumes  were  lying  on  the  grass,  but  the  book 
which  one  of  the  girls  held  in  her  hand,  standing 
up  in  an  attitude  of  indignant  remonstrance,  was  a 
square  slim  book  of  a different  aspect.  The  other 
held  a huge  pencil,  one  of  those  weapons  red  at 
one  end  and  blue  at  the  other  which  schoolboys 
love,  which  she  twirled  in  her  fingers  with  some  ex- 
citement. Mis^  Maydew  divined  at  once  who  they 
were,  and  walking  slowly,  listened.  Their  voices 
were  by  no  means  low,  and  they  were  quite  un- 
conscious of  auditors  and  indifferent  who  might 
hear. 

“What  does  ‘nice^  mean?”  cried  the  elder, 
flourishing  the  book.  “Why,  is  it  not  ladylike?  If 


AUNT  JANE. 


31 


one  Is  clever,  and  has  a gift,  is  one  not  to  use  it? 
Not  nice?  I want  to  know  what  nice  means?’’ 

“My  dear,”  said  the  governess,  “I  wish  you 
would  not  always  be  asking  what  everything  means. 
A great  many  things  are  understood  without  ex- 
planation in  good  society ” 

“But  we  don’t  know  anything  about  good  so- 
ciety, nor  society  at  all.  Why  is  it  not  nice  for 
Mab  to  draw?  Why  is  it  unladylike?”  cried  the 
girl,  her  eyes  sparkling.  As  for  the  other  one,  she 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  twirled  her  pencil, 
while  Miss  Brown  looked  at  them  with  a feeble 
protestation,  clasping  her  hands  in  despair. 

“Oh,  Cicely!  never  anything  but  why? — why?” 
she  said,  with  lofty,  yet  pitying  disapproval.  “You 
may  be  sure  it  is  so  when  I say  it.”  Then,  leaving 
this  high  position  for  the  more  dangerous  exercise 
of  reason.  “Besides,  the  more  one  thinks  of  it, 
the  more  improper  it  seems.  There  are  drawings 
of  gentlemen  in  that  book.  Is  that  nice,  do  you 
suppose?  Gentlemen!  Put  it  away;  and,  Mabel,  I 
desire  you  never  to  do  anything  so  very  unladylike 
again.” 

“But,  Miss  Brown!”  said  the  younger;  “there 
are  a great  many  gentlemen  in  the  world.  I can’t 
help  seeing  them,  can  I?” 

“A  young  lady  who  respects  herself,  and  who 
has  been  brought  up  as  she  ought,  never  looks  at 
gentlemen.  No,  you  can’t  help  seeing  them;  but 
to  draw  them  you  must  look  at  them;  you  must 
study  them.  Oh!”  said  Miss  Brown  with  horror, 
putting  up  her  hands  before  her  eyes,  “never  let 


32 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


me  hear  of  such  a thing  again.  Give  me  the  book, 
Cicely.  It  is  too  dreadful.  I ought  to  burn  it;  but 
at  least  I must  lock  it  away.” 

“Don't  be  afraid,  Mab;  she  shan't  have  the 
book,"  said  Cicely,  with  flashing  eyes,  stepping  back, 
and  holding  the  volume  behind  her  in  her  clasped 
hands. 

Just  then  Miss  May  dew  touched  her  on  the 
sleeve.  “I  can't  be  mistaken,''  said  the  old  lady; 
“you  are  so  like  your  poor  mother.  Are  you  not 
Mr.  St.  John's  daughter?  I suppose  you  don't  re- 
member me?" 

“It  is  Aunt  Jane,"  whispered  Mab  in  Cicely's 
ear,  getting  up  with  a blush,  more  conscious  of  the 
interruption  than  her  sister  was.  The  artist  had  the 
quickest  eye. 

“Yes,  it  is  Aunt  Jane;  I am  glad  you  recollect," 
said  Miss  May  dew.  “I  have  come  all  the  way 
from  town  to  pay  you  a visit,  and  that  is  not  a 
small  matter  on  such  a hot  day." 

“Papa  will  be  very  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Cicely, 
looking  up  shy  but  pleased,  with  a flood  of  colour 
rushing  over  her  face  under  the  shade  of  her  big 
hat.  She  was  doubtful  whether  she  should  put  up 
her  pretty  cheek  to  kiss  the  stranger,  or  wait  for 
that  salutation.  She  put  out  her  hand,  which  seemed 
an  intermediate  measure.  “I  am  Cicely,"  she  said, 
“and  this  is  Mab;  we  are  very  glad  to  see  you.  Aunt 
Jane." 

Miss  Brown  got  up  hastily  from  under  the  tree, 
and  made  the  stranger  a curtsy.  She  gave  a trou- 
bled glance  at  the  girls'  frocks,  which  were  not  so 


AUNT  JANE. 


33 


fresh  as  they  might  have  been.  ‘‘You  will  excuse 
their  schoolroom  dresses/^  she  said,  “we  were  not 
expecting  any  one;  and  it  was  so  fine  this  morning 
that  I indulged  the  young  ladies,  and  let  them  do 
their  work  here.  Ask  your  aunt,  my  dears,  to 
come  in.’’ 

“Work!”  said  Miss  May  dew,  somewhat  crossly, 
“I  heard  nothing  but  talk.  Yes,  I should  like  to 
go  in,  if  you  please.  It  is  a long  walk  from  the 
station — and  so  hot.  Why,  it  is  hotter  here  than 
in  London,  for  all  you  talk  about  the  country. 
There  you  can  always  get  shade  on  one  side  of 
the  street.  This  is  like  a furnace.  I don’t  know 
how  you  can  live  in  such  a blazing  place;”  and 
the  old  lady  fanned  herself  with  her  large  white 
handkerchief,  a sight  which  brought  gleams  of 
mischief  into  Mab’s  brown  eyes.  The  red  and  blue 
pencil  twirled  more  rapidly  round  than  ever  in  her 
fingers,  and  she  cast  a longing  glance  at  the  sketch- 
book in  Cicely’s  hand.  The  girls  were  quite  cool, 
and  at  their  ease  under  the  great  beech-tree,  which 
threw  broken  shadows  far  over  the  grass, — shadows 
which  waved  about  as  the  big  boughs  did,  and  re- 
freshed the  mind  with  soft  visionary  fanning.  Their 
big  hats  shadowed  two  faces,  fresh  and  cool  like 
flowers,  with  that  downy  bloom  upon  them  which 
is  the  privilege  of  extreme  youth.  Miss  Brown, 
who  was  concerned  about  their  frocks,  saw  nothing 
but  the  creases  in  their  pink  and  white  garments; 
but  what  Miss  Maydew  saw  was  (she  herself  said) 
“a  picture;”  two  fair  slim  things  in  white,  with 
touches  of  pink,  in  soft  shade,  with  bright  patches 

The  Curate  in  Charge.  3 


34 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


of  sunshine  flitting  about  them,  and  the  green  back- 
ground of  the  common  rolled  back  in  soft  undula- 
tions behind.  Poor  lady!  she  was  a great  contrast 
to  this  picture;  her  cheeks  flushed  with  the  heat, 
her  bonnet-strings  loosed,  fanning  herself  with  her 
handkerchief.  And  this  was  what  woke  up  those 
gleams  of  fun  in  Mab’s  saucy  eyes. 

‘^But  it  is  not  hot,”  said  Mab.  “How  can  you 
speak  of  a street  when  you  are  on  the  common? 
Don’t  you  smell  the  pines.  Aunt  Jane,  and  the 
honey  in  the  gorse?  Come  under  the  tree  near  to 
us;  it  is  not  the  least  hot  here.” 

“You  are  a conceitgd  little  person,”  said  Aunt 
Jane. 

“Oh  no!  she  is  not  conceited  — she  is  only 
decided  in  her  opinions,”  said  Cicely.  “You  see 
we  are  not  hot  in  the  shade.  But  come  in  this 
way,  the  back  way,  through  the  garden,  which  is 
always  cool.  Sit  down  here  in  the  summer-house. 
Aunt  Jane,  and  rest.  Pll  run  and  get  you  some 
strawberries.  They  are  just  beginning  to  get  ripe.” 

“You  are  a nice  little  person,”  said  Miss  Maydew, 
sitting  down  with  a sigh  of  relief.  “I  don’t  want 
any  strawberries,  but  you  can  come  and  kiss  me. 
You  are  very  like  your  poor  mother.  As  for  that 
thing,  I don’t  know  who  she  is  like — not  our  family, 
I am  sure.” 

“She  is  like  the  St.  Johns,”  said  Cicely  solemnly; 
“she  is  like  papa.” 

Mab  only  laughed.  She  did  not  mind  what 
people  said.  “I’ll  kiss  you,  too,”  she  said,  “Aunt 
Jane,  if  you  like,  though  you  don’t  like  me.” 


AUNT  JANE. 


35 


never  said  I didn’t  like  you.  I am  not  so 
very  fond  of  my  family  as  that.  One  can  see  you 
are  a pickle,  though  I don’t  so  much  mind  that 
either;  but  I like  to  look  at  this  one,  because  she 
is  like  your  poor  mother.  Dear,  dear!  Hester’s 
very  eyes,  and  her  cheeks  like  two  roses,  and  her 
nice  brown  wavy  hair!” 

The  girls  drew  near  with  eager  interest,  and 
Mab  took  up  in  her  artist’s  fingers  a great  handful 
of  the  hair  which  lay  upon  her  sister’s  shoulders. 
‘‘Was  mamma’s  like  that?”  she  said  in  awe  and 
wonder;  and  Cicely,  too,  fixed  her  eyes  upon  her 
own  bright  locks  reverentially.  It  gave  them  a new 
strange  feeling  for  their  mother  to  think  that  she 
had  once  been  a girl  like  themselves.  Strangest 
thought  for  a child’s  mind  to  grasp;  stranger  even 
than  the  kindred  thought,  that  one  day  those  crisp 
half-curling  locks,  full  of  threads  of  gold,  would  be 
blanched  like  the  soft  braids  under  Mrs.  St.  John’s 
cap.  “Poor  mamma!”  they  said  simultaneously 
under  their  breath. 

“Brighter  than  that!”  said  Miss  Maydew,  seeing 
across  the  mists  of  years  a glorified  vision  of  youth, 
more  lovely  than  Hester  had  ever  been.  “Ah,  well!” 
she  added  with  a sigh,  “time  goes  very  quickly, 
girls.  Before  you  know,  you  will  be  old,  too,  and 
tell  the  young  ones  how  pretty  you  were  long  ago. 
Yes,  Miss  Audacity!  you  mayn’t  believe  it,  but  I 
was  pretty,  too.” 

“Oh  yes,  I believe  it!”  cried  Mab,  relieved  from 
the  momentary  gravity  which  had  subdued  her. 
“You  have  a handsome  nose  still,  and  not  nearly 

3“^ 


36 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


SO  bad  a mouth  as  most  people.  I should  like  to 
draw  you,  just  as  you  stood  under  the  beech- tree; 
that  was  beautiful!^'  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands. 
Miss  Maydew  was  pleased.  She  recollected  how 
she  had  admired  the  two  young  creatures  under 
that  far- spreading  shade;  and  it  did  not  seem  at  all 
unnatural  that  they  should  in  their  turn  have  ad- 
mired her. 

“Mabel!  Mabel!’'  said  Miss  Brown,  who  knew 
better,  lifting  a warning  finger.  Miss  Maydew  took 
up  the  sketch-book  which  Cicely  had  laid  on  the 
rough  table  in  the  summer-house.  “Is  this  what 
you  were  all  talking  about?”  she  said.  But  at  this 
moment  the  governess  withdrew  and  followed  Cicely 
into  the  house.  She  walked  through  the  garden 
towards  the  rectory  in  a very  dignified  way.  She 
could  not  stand  by  and  laugh  faintly  at  caricatures 
of  herself  as  some  high-minded  people  are  capable 
of  doing.  “I  hope  Miss  Maydew  will  say  what  she 
thinks  very  plainly,”  she  said  to  Cicely,  who  flew 
past  her  in  a great  hurry  with  a fresh  clean  white 
napkin  out  of  the  linen-press.  But  Cicely  was  much 
too  busy  to  reply.  As  for  Mab,  I think  she  would 
have  escaped  too,  had  she  been  able;  but  as  that 
was  impossible,  she  stood  up  very  demurely  while 
her  old  aunt  turned  over  the  book,  which  was  a 
note-book  ruled  with  blue  lines,  and  intended  for 
a more  virtuous  purpose  than  that  to  which  it  had 
been  appropriated;  and  it  was  not  until  Miss  Maydew 
burst  into  a short  but  hearty  laugh  over  a caricature 
of  Miss  Brown  that  Mab  ventured  to  breathe. 

“You  wicked  little  thing!  Are  these  yours?'' 


AUNT  JANE, 


37 


said  Miss  Maydew;  ‘^and  how  dared  you  let  that 
poor  woman  see  them?  Why,  she  is  there  to  the 
life!’’ 

“Oh!  Aunt  Jane,  give  me  the  book!  She  has 
never  seen  them:  only  a few  innocent  ones  at  the 
beginning.  Oh!  please  give  me  the  book!  I don’t 
want  her  to  see  them!”  cried  Mab. 

“You  hate  her,  I suppose?” 

“O!  no,  no!  give  me  the  book.  Aunt  Jane!  We 
don’t  hate  her  at  all;  we  like  her  rather.  Oh!  please 
give  it  me  before  she  comes  back!” 

“Why  do  you  make  caricatures  of  her,  then?” 
said  Miss  Maydew,  fixing  her  eyes  severely  on  the 
girl’s  face. 

“Because  she  is  such  fun!”  cried  Mab;  “because 
it  is  such  fun.  I don’t  mean  any  harm,  but  if 
people  will  look  funny,  how  can  I help  it?  Give 
me  the  book.  Aunt  Jane!” 

“I  suppose  I looked  funny  too,”  said  Miss 
Maydew,  “under  the  beech-tree,  fanning  myself  with 
my  pocket-handkerchief.  I thought  I heard  you 
giggle.  Go  away,  you  wicked  little  thing!  Here  is 
your  sister  coming.  I like  her  a great  deal  better 
than  you!” 

“So  she  is,  a great  deal  better  than  me,”  said 
Mab,  picking  up  her  book.  She  stole  away,  giving 
herself  a serious  lecture,  as  Cicely  tripped  into  the 
summer-house  carrying  a tray.  “I  must  not  do  it 
again,”  she  said  to  herself.  “It  is  silly  of  me.  It 
is  always  getting  me  into  scrapes;  even  papa,  when 
I showed  him  that  one  of  himself!”  Here  Mab 
paused  to  laugh,  for  it  had  been  very  funny — and 


38  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

then  blushed  violently;  for  certainly  it  was  wrong, 
very  wrong  to  caricature  one’s  papa.  ‘‘At  all  events,” 
she  said  under  her  breath,  “Til  get  a book  with  a 
lock  and  key  as  soon  as  ever  I have  any  money, 
and  show  them  only  to  Cicely;  but  oh!  I must,  I 
must  just  this  once,  do  Aunt  Jane!” 

Cicely  meanwhile  came  into  the  summer-house 
carrying  the  tray.  “It  is  not  the  right  time  for  it, 
I know,”  she  said,  “but  I felt  sure  you  would  like 
a cup  of  tea.  Doesn’t  it  smell  nice — like  the  hay- 
fields?  Tea  is  always  nice,  is  it  not.  Aunt  Jane?” 
“My  darling,  you  are  the  very  image  of  your 
poor  mother!”  said  Miss  May  dew  with  tears  in  her 
eyes.  “She  was  always  one  who  took  the  trouble 
to  think  what  her  friends  would  like  best.  And 
what  good  tea  it  is,  and  how  nicely  served!  Was 
the  kettle  boiling?  Ah!  I recognise  your  dear 
mother  in  that.  It  used  always  to  be  a saying 
with  us  at  home  that  the  kettle  should  always  be 
boiling  in  a well-regulated  house.” 

Then  the  old  lady  began  to  ask  cunning  ques- 
tions about  the  household:  whether  Cicely  was  in 
the  habit  of  making  tea  and  carrying  trays  about, 
as  she  did  this  so  nicely;  and  other  close  and 
delicate  cross-examinations,  by  vdiich  she  found 
out  a great  deal  about  the  qualities  of  the  servant 
and  the  governess.  Miss  Maydew  was  too  clever 
to  tell  Cicely  what  she  thought  at  the  conclusion 
of  her  inquiry,  but  she  went  in  thoughtfully  to  the 
house,  and  was  somewhat  silent  as  the  girls  took 
her  all  over  it — to  the  best  room  to  take  off  her 
bonnet,  to  their  room  to  see  what  a pretty  view 


AUNT  JANE. 


39 


they  had,  and  into  all  the  empty  chambers.  The 
comments  she  made  as  she  followed  them  were 
few  but  significant.  “It  was  rather  extravagant  of 
your  papa  to  furnish  it  all;  he  never  could  have 
wanted  so  large  a house/^  she  said. 

“Oh!  but  the  furniture  is  the  Rector’s,  it  is  not 
papa’s,”  cried  her  conductors,  both  in  a breath. 

“I  shouldn’t  like,  if  I were  him,  to  have  the 
charge  of  other  people’s  furniture,”  Miss  Maydew 
replied;  and  it  seemed  to  the  girls  that  she  was 
rather  disposed  to  find  fault  with  all  poor  papa’s 
arrangements,  though  she  was  so  kind  to  them. 
Mr.  St.  John  was  “in  the  parish,”  and  did  not 
come  back  till  it  was  time  for  the  early  dinner; 
and  it  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Miss  May- 
dew,  knocking  at  his  study  door,  went  in  alone 
to  “have  a talk”  with  him,  with  the  intention  of 
“giving  him  her  mind”  on  several  subjects,  written 
fully  in  her  face.  The  study  was  a well-sized 
room  looking  out  upon  the  garden,  and  furnished 
with  heavy  book-shelves  and  bureaux  in  old  dark 
coloured  mahogany.  The  carpet  was  worn,  but 
those  mournful  pieces  of  furniture  defied  the  action 
of  time.  She  looked  round  upon  them  with  a 
slightly  supercilious  critical  glance. 

“The  room  is  very  well  furnished,”  she  said, 
“Mr.  St.  John;  exceedingly  well  furnished;  to  rub 
it  up  and  keep  it  in  order  must  give  your  servant 
a great  deal  of  work.” 

“It  is  not  my  furniture,  but  Mr.  Chester’s,  my 
rector,”  said  the  curate;  “we  never  had  very  much 
of  our  own.” 


40 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


“It  must  give  the  maid  a deal  of  work  all  the 
same,  and  that’s  why  the  girls  have  so  much  house- 
maiding  to  do,  I suppose,”  said  Miss  Maydew 
sharply.  “To  tell  the  truth,  that  was  what  I came 
to  speak  of.  I am  not  at  all  satisfied,  Mr.  St.  John, 
about  the  girls.” 

“The  girls?  They  are  quite  well,  I think,  quite 
well,”  said  Mr.  St.  John  meekly.  He  was  not 
accustomed  to  be  spoken  to  in  this  abrupt  tone. 

“I  was  not  thinking  of  their  health;  of  course 
they  are  well;  how  could  they  help  being  well  with 
so  much  fresh  air,  and  a cow,  I suppose,  and  all 
that?  I don’t  like  the  way  they  are  managed. 
They  are  nice  girls,  but  that  Miss  Brown  knows 
just  about  as  much  how  to  manage  them  as  you — 
as  that  table  does,  Mr.  St.  John.  It  is  ridiculous. 
She  has  no  control  over  them.  Now,  I’ll  tell  you 
what  is  my  opinion.  They  ought  to  be  sent  to 
school.” 

“To  school!”  he  said,  startled.  “I  thought  girls 
were  not  sent  to  school.” 

“Ah,  that  is  when  they  have  a nice  mother  to 
look  after  them — a woman  like  poor  Hester;  but 
what  are  those  two  doing?  You  don’t  look  after 
them  yourself,  Mr.  St.  John?” 

“I  suppose  it  can’t  be  said  that  I do,”  he  said, 
with  hesitation:  “perhaps  it  is  wrong,  but  what  do 
I know  of  girls’  education?  and  then  they  all  said 
I should  have  Miss  Brown.” 

“Who  are  They  all?’  You  should  have  asked 
me.  I should  never  have  said  Miss  Brown.  Not 
that  I’ve  anything  against  her,  She  is  a good, 


AUNT  JANE. 


41 


silly  creature  enough  — but  pay  attention  to  me, 
please,  Mr.  St.  John.  I say  the  girls  should  go  to 
school.” 

‘4t  is  very  likely  you  may  be  right,”  said  Mr. 
St.  John,  who  always  yielded  to  impetuosity,  “but 
what  should  I do  with  Miss  Brown?” 

“Send  her  away — nothing  could  be  more  easy — 
tell  her  that  you  shall  not  want  her  services  any 
longer.  You  must  give  her  a month’s  notice,  un- 
less she  was  engaged  in  some  particular  way.” 

“I  don’t  know,”  said  the  curate  in  trepidation. 
“Bless  me,  it  will  be  very  unpleasant.  What  will 
she  do?  What  do  you  think  she  would  say? 
Don’t  you  think,  on  the  whole,  we  get  on  very 
well  as  we  are?  I have  always  been  told  that  it 
was  bad  to  send  girls  to  school;  and  besides  it 
costs  a great  deal  of  money,”  he  added  after  a 
pause.  “I  don’t  know  if  I could  afford  it;  that  is 
a thing  which  must  be  thought  of,”  he  said,  with  a 
sense  of  relief. 

“I  have  thought  of  that,”  said  Miss  May  dew 
triumphantly:  “the  girls  interest  me,  and  I will 
send  them  to  school.  Oh,  don’t  say  anything.  I 
don’t  do  it  for  thanks.  To  me  their  improving 
will  be  my  recompense.  Put  all  anxiety  out  of 

your  mind;  I will  undertake  the  whole ” 

“But,  Miss  Maydew!” 

“There  are  no  buts  in  the  matter,”  said  Aunt 
Jane,  rising;  “I  have  quite  settled  it.  I have  saved 
a nice  little  sum,  which  will  go  to  them  eventually, 
and  I should  like  to  see  them  in  a position  to  do 
jne  credit.  Don't  say  anything,  Mr.  St.  John. 


42 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


Hester’s  girls! — poor  Hester! — no  one  in  the  world 
can  have  so  great  a claim  upon  me;  and  no  one 
can  tell  so  well  as  I what  they  lost  in  poor  Hester, 
Mr.  St.  John — and  what  you  lost  as  well.” 

The  curate  bowed  his  head.  Though  he  was 
so  tranquil  and  resigned,  the  name  of  his  Hester 
went  to  his  heart,  with  a dull  pang,  perhaps — for 
he  was  growing  old,  and  had  a calm  unimpas- 
sioned spirit — but  still  with  a pang,  and  no  easy 
words  of  mourning  would  come  to  his  lip. 

^‘Yes,  indeed,”  said  Aunt  Jane,  ‘T  don’t  know 
that  I ever  knew  any  one  like  her;  and  her  girls 
shall  have  justice,  they  shall  have  justice,  Mr. 
St.  John.  I mean  to  make  it  my  business  to  find 
them  a school — but  till  you  have  heard  from  me 
finally,”  she  added,  turning  back  after  she  had 
reached  the  door,  “it  will  be  as  well  not  to  say 
anything  to  Miss  Brown.” 

“Oh  no,”  said  the  curate  eagerly,  “it  will  be 
much  best  to  say  nothing  to  Miss  Brown.” 

Miss  Maydew  nodded  at  him  confidentially  as 
she  went  away,  and  left  him  in  all  the  despair  of 
an  unexpected  crisis.  He  say  anything  to  Miss 
Brown!  What  should  he  say?  That  he  had  no 
further  occasion  for  her  services?  But  how  could 
he  say  so  to  a lady?  Had  he  not  always  gone 
upon  the  amiable  ground  that  she  had  done  him 
the  greatest  favour  in  coming  there  to  teach  his 
daughters,  and  now  to  dismiss  her — to  dismiss  her! 
Mr.  St.  John’s  heart  sunk  down,  down  to  the  very 
heels  of  his  boots.  It  was  all  very  easy  for  Aunt 


MISS  BROWN. 


43 


Jane,  who  had  not  got  it  to  do;  but  he,  he!  how 
was  he  ever  to  summon  his  courage  and  say  any- 
thing like  this  to  Miss  Brown? 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Miss  Brown. 

Mr.  St.  John's  mind  was  very  much  moved  by 
this  conversation.  It  threw  a shadow  over  his 
harmless  life.  He  could  not  say  good  night  or 
good  morning  to  Miss  Brown  without  feeling  in 
his  very  soul  the  horror  of  the  moment  when  he 
should  have  to  say  to  her  that  he  had  no  further 
need  for  her  services.  To  say  it  to  Hannah  in  the 
kitchen  would  have  been  dreadful  enough,  but  in 
that  case  he  could  at  least  have  employed  Miss 
Brown,  or  even  Cicely,  to  do  it  for  him,  whereas 
now  he  could  employ  no  one.  Sometimes,  from 
the  mere  attraction  of  horror,  he  would  rehearse  it 
under  his  breath  when  he  sat  up  late,  and  knew 
that  no  one  was  up  in  the  rectory,  or  when  he  was 
alone  on  some  quiet  road  at  the  other  extremity 
of  the  parish.  ‘‘I  shall  have  no  further  need  for 
your  services."  Terrible  formula!  the  mere  thought 
of  which  froze  the  blood  in  his  veins.  This  horror 
made  him  less  sociable  than  he  had  ever  been. 
He  took  no  more  of  those  evening  walks  which  he 
had  once  liked  in  his  quiet  way, — when,  the  two 
girls  speeding  on  before,  with  their  restless  feet,  he 
would  saunter  along  the  twilight  road  after  them, 
at  ease  and  quiet,  with  his  hands  under  his  coat- 


44 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


tails;  while  little  Miss  Brown,  generally  a step  or 
two  behind,  came  trotting  after  him  with  her  small 
steps,  propounding  little  theological  questions  or 
moral  doubts  upon  which  she  would  like  to  have 
his  opinion.  The  evening  stillness,  the  shadowy, 
soft  gloom  about,  the  mild,  grey  mist  of  imperfect 
vision  that  made  everything  dreamy  and  vague, 
suited  him  better  than  the  light  and  colour  of  the 
day.  As  he  wandered  on,  in  perfect  repose  and 
ease,  with  the  two  flitting  figures  before  him,  darting 
from  side  to  side  of  the  road,  and  from  bush  to 
bush  of  the  common,  their  voices  sounding  like 
broken  links  of  music;  notwithstanding  all  that  he 
had  had  in  his  life  to  wear  him  down,  the  curate 
was  happy.  Very  often  at  the  conclusion  of  these 
walks  he  would  go  through  the  churchyard  and 
stand  for  a moment  at  the  white  cross  over  his 
wife’s  grave.  But  this  act  did  not  change  his 
mood;  he  went  there  as  he  might  have  gone  had 
Hester  been  ill  in  bed,  to  say  softly,  ‘'Good  night, 
my  dear,”  through  the  closed  curtains.  She  made 
him  no  reply;  but  she  was  well  off  and  happy, 
dear  soul!  and  why  should  not  he  be  so  too?  And 
when  he  went  in  to  supper  after,  he  was  always 
very  cheerful;  it  was  with  him  the  friendliest  mo- 
ment of  the  day. 

But  this  was  all  over  since  Miss  Maydew’s  visit; 
the  thought  of  the  moment,  no  doubt  approaching, 
when  he  would  have  to  say,  “I  shall  have  no  further 
need  for  your  services,”  overwhelmed  him.  He  had 
almost  said  it  over  like  a parrot  on  several  occa- 
sions, so  poisoned  was  his  mind  by  the  horror  that 


MISS  BROWN. 


45 


was  to  come.  And  Miss  Maydew,  I need  not  say, 
did  not  let  any  grass  grow  under  her  feet  in  the 
matter.  She  was  so  convinced  of  Miss  Brown’s 
incapacity,  and  so  eager  in  following  out  her  own 
plan,  and  so  much  interested  in  the  occupation  it 
gave  her,  that  her  tranquil  life  was  quite  revolu- 
tionized by  it.  She  went  to  call  upon  all  her  friends, 
and  consulted  them  anxiously  about  the  young 
ladies’  schools  they  knew.  “It  must  not  be  too 
expensive,  but  it  must  be  very  good,”  she  told  all 
her  acquaintances,  who  were,  like  most  other  people, 
struck  with  respect  by  the  name  of  St.  John.  Al- 
most an  excitement  arose  in  that  quiet,  respectable 
neighbourhood,  penetrating  even  into  those  stately 
houses  in  Russell  Square,  at  two  or  three  of  which 
Miss  Maydew  visited.  “Two  very  sweet  girls,  the 
daughters  of  a clergyman,  the  sort  of  girls  whom  it 
would  be  an  advantage  to  any  establishment  to  re- 
ceive,” Miss  Maydew’s  friend  said;  and  the  con- 
clusion was,  that  the  old  lady  found  “vacancies” 
for  her  nieces  in  the  most  unexpected  way  in  a 
school  of  very  high  pretensions  indeed,  which  gladly 
accepted,  on  lower  terms  than  usual,  girls  so  well 
recommended,  and  with  so  well-sounding  a name. 
She  wrote  with  triumph  in  her  heart  to  their  father 
as  soon  as  she  had  arrived  at  this  summit  of  her 
wishes,  and,  I need  not  say,  carried  despair  to  his. 
But  even  after  he  had  received  two  or  three  warn- 
ings, Mr.  St.  John  could  not  screw  his  courage  to 
the  sticking  point  for  the  terrible  step  that  was 
required  of  him;  and  it  was  only  a letter  from  Miss 
Maydew,  announcing  her  speedy  arrival  to  escort 


46  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

the  girls  to  their  school,  and  her  desire  that  their 
clothes  should  be  got  ready,  that  forced  him  into 
action.  A more  miserable  man  was  not  in  all  the 
country  than,  when  thus  compelled  by  fate,  the 
curate  was.  He  had  not  been  able  to  sleep  all 
night  for  thinking  of  this  dreadful  task  before  him. 
He  was  not  able  to  eat  any  breakfast,  and  the  girls 
were  consulting  together  what  could  be  the  matter 
with  papa  when  he  suddenly  came  into  the  school- 
room, where  Miss  Brown  sat  placidly  at  the  large 
deal  table,  setting  copies  in  her  neat  little  hand. 
All  his  movements  were  so  quiet  and  gentle  that 
the  abruptness  of  his  despair  filled  the  girls  with 
surprise  and  dismay. 

“Papa  came  flouncing  in,’’  Mab  said,  who  was 
partly  touched  and  partly  indignant — indignant  at 
being  sent  off  to  school,  touched  by  the  sight  of 
his  evident  emotion.  The  girls  believed  that  this 
emotion  was  called  forth  by  the  idea  of  parting 
with  them;  they  did  not  know  that  it  was  in  reality 
a mixture  of  fright  and  horror  as  to  how  he  was 
to  make  that  terrible  announcement  to  Miss  Brown. 

“My  dears,”  he  said,  faltering,  “I  have  got  a 
letter  from  your  aunt  Jane.  I am  afraid  it  will 
take  you  by  surprise  as — as  it  has  done  me.  She 
wants  you  to — go — to  school.” 

“To  school!”  they  cried  both  together,  in  un- 
feigned horror  and  alarm.  Miss  Brown,  who  had 
been  ruling  her  copy-books  very  nicely,  acknow- 
ledging Mr.  St.  John’s  entrance  only  by  a smile, 
let  the  pencil  drop  out  of  her  hand. 

“It  is — very  sudden,”  he  said,  trembling — “very 


MISS  BROWN. 


47 


sudden.  Your  poor  aunt  is  that  kind  of  woman. 
She  means  to  be  very  kind  to  you,  my  dears;  and 
she  has  made  up  her  mind  that  you  must  be  edu- 
cated  ” 

“Educated!  Are  we  not  being  educated  now? 
Miss  Brown  teaches  us  everything — everything  we 
require  to  know,”  said  Cicely,  her  colour  rising, 
planting  herself  in  front  of  the  governess;  as  she 
had  sprung  up  to  defend  her  sister,  when  Miss 
Maydew  saw  her  first.  At  that  age  Cicely  was 
easily  moved  to  indignation,  and  started  forward 
perhaps  too  indiscriminately  in  behalf  of  any  one 
who  might  be  assailed.  She  was  ready  to  put  Miss 
Brown  upon  the  highest  pedestal,  whenever  a word 
was  said  in  her  disfavour. 

“So  I think,  my  dear;  so  I think,”  said  the 
frightened  curate.  “I  made  that  very  remark  to 
your  aunt;  but  it  is  very  difficult  to  struggle  against 
the  impetuosity  of  a lady,  and — and  perhaps  being 
taken  by  surprise,  I — acquiesced  more  easily  than 
I ought.” 

“But  we  won’t  go — we  can’t  go,”  cried  Mab. 
“I  shall  die,  and  Cicely  will  die,  if  we  are  sent 
away  from  home.” 

“My  dears!”  said  poor  Mr.  St.  John — this  im- 
petuosity was  terrible  to  him — “you  must  not  say 
so;  indeed  you  must  not  say  so.  What  could  I 
say  to  your  aunt?  She  means  to  give  you  all  she 
has,  and  how  could  I oppose  her?  She  means 
it  for  the  best.  I am  sure  she  means  it  for  the 
best.” 

“And  did  you  really  consent,”  said  Cicely,  seri- 


48 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


ously,  looking  him  straight  in  the  eyes,  ‘‘without 
ever  saying  a word  to  us,  or  to  Miss  Brown?  Oh, 
papa,  I could  not  have  believed  it  of  you!  I hate 
Aunt  Jane!  Miss  Brown,  dear!’^  cried  the  girl, 
throwing  her  arms  suddenly  round  the  little  gover- 
ness, “it  is  not  Mab’s  fault  nor  mine!’^ 

Then  it  was  Miss  Brownes  turn  to  fall  upon  the 
unhappy  curate  and  slay  him.  “My  dear  love,’^ 
she  said,  “how  could  I suppose  it  was  your  fault 
or  Mab’s?  Except  a little  levity  now  and  then, 
which  was  to  be  expected  at  your  age,  you  have 
been  very  good,  very  good  children.  There  is  no 
fault  at  all  in  the  matter,”  she  ^continued,  turning 
with  that  magnanimity  of  the  aggrieved  which  is 
so  terrible  to  an  olfender,  to  Mr.  St.  John.  “Per- 
haps it  is  a little  sudden;  perhaps  a person  so  fond 
of  the  girls  as  I am  might  have  been  expected  to 
be  consulted  as  to  the  best  school;  for  there  is  a 
great  difference  in  schools.  But  Miss  Maydew  is 
very  impetuous,  and  I don’t  blame  your  dear  papa. 
When  do  you  wish  me  to  leave,  sir?”  she  said, 
looking  at  him  with  a smile,  which  tortured  the 
curate,  upon  her  lips. 

“Miss  Brown,  I hope  you  will  not  think  badly 
of  me,”  he  said.  “You  can’t  think  how  hard  all 
this  is  upon  me.” 

The  little  woman  rose  up,  and  waved  her  hand 
with  dignity.  “We  must  not  enter  into  such  ques- 
tions,” she  said;  “if  you  will  be  so  very  kind  as  to 
tell  me  when  you  would  like  me  to  go.” 

I don’t  know  what  incoherent  words  the  curate 
Stammered  forth:  that  she  should  stay  as  long  as 


MISS  BROWN. 


49 


she  liked;  that  she  must  make  her  arrangements 
entirely  to  suit  herself;  that  he  had  never  thought 
of  wishing  her  to  go.  This  was  what  he  said  in 
much  disturbance  and  agitation  of  mind  instead  of 
the  other  formula  he  had  rehearsed  about  having 
no  further  need  for  her  services.  All  this  Miss 
Brown  received  with  the  pale  smiling  of  the  injured 
and  magnanimous;  while  the  girls  looked  fiercely 
on  their  father,  leaving  him  alone  and  undefended. 
When  he  got  away  he  was  so  exhausted  that  he  did 
not  feel  able  to  go  out  into  the  parish,  but  with- 
drew to  his  study,  where  he  lurked,  half  paralyzed, 
all  the  rest  of  the  day,  like  the  criminal  abandoned 
by  woman  and  by  man,  which  he  felt  himself  to  be. 

And  I will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  commo- 
tion which  this  announcement  raised  in  the  rest  of 
the  house.  Miss  Brown  kept  up  that  smile  of 
magnanimous  meekness  all  day.  She  would  not 
give  in.  “No,  my  dears she  said,  “there  is  no- 
thing to  be  said  except  that  it  is  a little  sudden.  I 
think  your  papa  is  quite  right,  and  that  you  are 
getting  beyond  me.” 

“It  is  not  papa,”  said  Cicely;  “it  is  that  horrible 
Aunt  Jane.” 

“And  she  was  quite  right,”  said  the  magnanimous 
governess;  “quite  right.  She  saw  that  I was  not 
strong  enough.  It  is  a little  sudden,  that  is  all; 
and  we  must  not  make  mountains  out  of  mole- 
hills, my  dears.”  But  she,  too,  retired  to  her  room 
early,  where,  sitting  forlorn  at  the  window,  she  had 
a good  cry,  poor  soul;  for  she  had  begun  to  grow 
fond  of  this  rude  solitude,  and  she  had  no  home. 

The  Curaie  in  Charge,  4 


50 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


As  for  the  girls,  after  their  first  dismay  and 
wrath  the  tide  turned  with  them.  They  were  going 
out  into  the  unknown,  words  which  sound  so  dif- 
ferently to  different  ears — so  miserable  to  some, 
so  exciting  to  others.  To  Cicely  and  Mab  they 
were  exciting  only.  A new  world,  new  faces,  new 
people  to  know,  new  places  to  see,  new  things  to 
hear;  gradually  they  forgot  their  wrath  alike  and 
their  emotion  at  this  thought.  A thrill  of  awe,  of 
fear,  of  delicious  curiosity  and  wonder  ran  through 
them.  This  checked  upon  their  very  lips  those  re- 
proaches which  they  had  been  pouring  forth,  ad- 
dressed to  their  father  and  to  Aunt  Jane.  Would 
they  be  miserable  after  all?  should  not  they,  rather, 
on  the  whole,  like  it,  if  it  was  not  wrong  to  say  so? 
This  first  silenced,  then  insinuated  into  their  lips 
little  broken  words,  questions  and  wonderings  which 
betrayed  to  each  the  other’s  feelings.  ‘Tt  might 
be — fun,  perhaps,”  Mab  said  at  last;  then  looked 
up  frightened  at  Cicely,  wondering  if  her  sister  would 
metaphorically  kill  her  for  saying  so.  But  then  a 
gleam  in  Cicely’s  eyes  looked  as  if  she  thought 
so  too. 

Miss  Brown  set  about  very  bravely  next  morn- 
ing to  get  their  things  in  order.  She  was  very 
brave  and  determined  to  be  magnanimous,  but  I 
cannot  say  that  she  was  cheerful.  It  is  true  that 
she  kept  smiling  all  day  long,  like  Malvolio,  though 
with  the  better  motive  of  concealing  her  disappoint- 
ment and  pain  and  unjust  feeling;  but  the  effect  of 
this  smile  was  depressing.  She  was  determined, 
whatever  might  happen,  to  do  her  duty  to  the  last; 


MISS  BROWN. 


5^ 


and  then,  what  did  it  matter  what  should  follow? 
With  this  valiant  resolution  she  faced  the  crisis 
and  nobly  took  up  all  its  duties.  She  bought  I 
don^t  know  how  many  dozens  of  yards  of  nice 
‘‘long -cloth,”  and  cut  out  and  made  up,  chiefly 
with  the  sewing-machine,  garments  which  she  dis- 
creetly called  “under-clothing”  for  the  girls;  for 
her  delicacy  shunned  the  familiar  names  of  those 
indispensable  articles.  She  found  it  needful  that 
they  should  have  new  Sunday  frocks,  and  engaged 
the  parish  dressmaker  for  a week,  and  went  herself 
to  town  to  buy  the  stuff,  after  the  girls  and  she  had 
spent  an  anxious  yet  not  unpleasant  afternoon  in 
looking  over  patterns.  All  this  she  did,  and  never 
a word  of  murmur  escaped  her  lips.  She  was  a 
heroic  woman.  And  the  busy  days  pursued  each 
other  so  rapidly  that  the  awful  morning  came,  and 
the  girls  weeping,  yet  not  uncheerful,  were  swept 
away  by  the  “fly”  from  the  station — where  Miss 
May  dew,  red  and  excited,  met  them,  and  carried 
them  off  remorseless  on  their  further  way — before 
any  one  had  time  to  breathe,  much  less  to  think. 
Mr.  St.  John  went  to  the  station  with  his  daugh- 
ters, and  coming  back  alone  and  rather  sad,  for  the 
first  time  forgot  Miss  Brown;  so  that  when  he  heard 
a low  sound  of  the  piano  in  the  schoolroom  he 
was  half  frightened,  and,  without  thinking,  went 
straight  to  the  forsaken  room  to  see  what  it  was. 
Poor  curate! — unfortunate  Mr.  St.  John!  and  not 
less  unfortunate  Miss  Brown.  The  music  had  ceased 
before  he  reached  the  door,  and  when  he  went  in 
nothing  was  audible  but  a melancholy  little  sound 


;52  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

of  sobbing  and  crying.  Miss  Brown  was  sitting 
before  the  old  piano  with  her  head  bowed  down  in 
her  hands.  Her  little  sniffs  and  sobs  were  pitiful 
to  hear.  When  he  spoke  she  gave  a great  start, 
and  got  up  trembling,  wiping  her  tears  hastily  away 
with  her  handkerchief.  “Did  you  speak,  sir?^'  she 
said,  with  her  usual  attempt  at  cheerfulness.  “I 
hope  I did  not  disturb  you;  I was  — amusing  my- 
self a little,  until  it  is  time  for  my  train.  My 
th-things  are  all  packed  and  r-ready,”  said  the 
poor  little  woman,  making  a deplorable  effort  at  a 
smile.  The  sobs  in  her  voice  struck  poor  Mr.  St. 
John  to  the  very  heart. 

“I  have  never  had  time,''  he  said  in  the  tone  of 
a self-condemned  criminal,  “to  ask  where  you  are 
going.  Miss  Brown." 

“Oh,  yes,  I have  a pl-place  to  go  to,"  she  said. 
“I  have  written  to  the  Governesses'  Institution, 
Mr.  St.  John,  and  very  fo-fortunately  they  have  a 
vacant  room." 

“The  Governesses'  Institution!  Is  that  the  only 
place  you  have  to  go  to?"  he  said. 

“Indeed,  it  is  a very  nice  place,"  said  Miss 
Brown;  “very  quiet  and  lady-like,  and  not  d-dear. 
I have,  excuse  me,  I have  got  so  fo-fond  of  them. 
I never  meant  to  cry.  It  is  in  Harley  Street,  Mr. 
St.  John,  very  nice  and  respectable,  and  a great 
b-blessing  to  have  such  a place,  when  one  has  no 
h-home." 

Mr.  St.  John  walked  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  and  then  back  again  twice  over.  How  con- 
$cience-stricken  he  was!  While  poor  Miss  Brown 


MISS  BROWN. 


53 


bit  her  lips  and  winked  her  eyelids  to  keep  the 
tears  away.  Oh,  why  couldn’t  he  go  away,  and  let 
her  have  her  cry  out?  But  he  did  not  do  that. 
He  stopped  short  at  the  table  where  she  had  set 
so  many  sums  and  cut  out  so  much  under-clothing, 
and  half  turning  his  back  upon  her  said,  faltering, 
Would  it  not  be  better  to  stay  here.  Miss  Brown?” 
The  little  governess  blushed  from  head  to  foot, 
I am  sure,  if  any  one  could  have  seen;  she  felt 
thrills  of  confusion  run  all  over  her  at  such  a 
suggestion.  ‘‘Oh,  no,  no,”  she  cried,  “you  are  very 
kind,  Mr.  St.  John,  but  I have  nobody  but  myself 
to  take  care  of  now,  and  I could  not  stay  here,  a 
day,  not  now  the  girls  are  gone.” 

The  poor  curate  did  not  move.  He  took  off 
the  lid  of  the  big  inkstand  and  examined  it  as  if 
that  were  what  he  was  thinking  of.  The  Gover- 
nesses’ Institution  sounded  miserable  to  him,  and 
what  could  he  do?  “Miss  Brown,”  he  said  in  a 
troubled  voice,  “if  you  think  you  would  like  to 
marry  me,  I have  no  objection;  and  then  you  know 
you  could  stay.” 

“Mr.  St.  John!” 

“Yes;  that  is  the  only  thing  I can  think  of,”  he 
said,  with  a sigh.  “After  being  here  for  years, 
how  can  you  go  to  a Governesses’  Institution? 
Therefore,  if  you  think  you  would  like  it.  Miss 
Brown ” 

How  can  I relate  what  followed?  “Oh,  Mr. 
St.  John,  you  are  speaking  out  of  pity,  only  pity!” 
said  the  little  woman,  with  a sudden  romantic 
gleam  of  certainty  that  he  must  have  been  a victim 


54 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


of  despairing  love  for  her  all  this  time,  and  that 
the  school-going  of  the  girls  was  but  a device  for 
bringing  out  his  passion.  But  Mr.  St.  John  did 
not  deny  this  charge,  as  she  expected  he  would. 
‘‘I  don’t  know  about  pity,”  he  said,  confused,  ‘^but 
I am  very  sorry,  and  — and  I don’t  see  any  other 
way.” 

This  was  how  it  happened  that  three  weeks 
after  the  girls  went  to  school  Mr.  St.  John  married 
Miss  Brown.  She  went  to  the  Governesses’  Institu- 
tion after  all,  resolute  in  her  propriety,  until  the 
needful  interval  had  passed,  and  then  she  came 
back  as  Mrs.  St.  John,  to  her  own  great  surprise, 
and  to  the  still  greater  surprise  and  consternation 
of  the  curate  himself,  and  of  the  parish,  who  could 
not  believe  their  ears.  I need  not  say  that  Miss 
May  dew  was  absolutely  furious,  or  that  it  was  a 
great  shock  to  Cicely  and  Mab  when  they  were 
told  what  had  happened.  They  did  not  trust  them- 
selves to  say  much  to  each  other  on  the  subject. 
It  was  the  only  subject,  indeed,  which  they  did  not 
discuss  between  themselves;  but  by-and-by  even 
they  got  used  to  it,  as  people  do  to  everything, 
and  they  were  quite  friendly,  though  distant,  to  Mrs. 
St.  John. 

Only  one  other  important  event  occurred  to 
that  poor  little  woman  in  her  life.  A year  after 
her  marriage  she  had  twin  boys,  to  the  still  greater 
consternation  of  the  curate;  and  three  years  after 
this  she  died.  Thus  the  unfortunate  man  was  left 
once  more  with  two  helpless  children  on  his  hands, 
as  helpless  himself  as  either  of  them,  and  again 


THE  GIRLS  AT  SCHOOL. 


55 


subject  as  before  to  the  advice  of  all  the  parish. 
They  counselled  him  this  time  ‘‘a  good  nurse/^  not 
a governess;  but  fortunately  other  actors  appeared 
on  the  scene  before  he  had  time  to  see  the  excel- 
lent creature  whom  Mrs.  Brockmill,  of  Fir  Tree 
House,  knew  of.  While  he  listened  hopelessly,  a 
poor  man  of  sixty-five,  casting  piteous  looks  at  the 
two  babies  whom  he  had  no  right,  he  knew,  to 
have  helped  into  the  world.  Cicely  and  Mab,  with 
bright  faces  and  flying  feet,  were  already  on  the 
way  to  his  rescue;  and  here,  dear  reader,  though 
you  may  think  you  already  know  something  of  it, 
this  true  story  really  begins. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  Girls  at  School. 

The  school  to  which  Miss  Maydew  sent  the 
girls  was  in  the  outskirts  of  a seaside  town,  and  it 
was  neither  the  best  nor  the  worst  of  such  estab- 
lishments. There  were  some  things  which  all  the 
girls  had  to  submit  to,  and  some  which  bore  espe- 
cially on  the  Miss  St.  Johns,  who  had  been  received 
at  a lower  price  than  most  of  the  others;  but  on 
the  whole  the  Miss  Blandys  were  good  women,  and 
not  unkind  to  the  pupils.  Cicely  and  Mab,  as  sis- 
ters, had  a room  allotted  to  them  in  the  upper  part 
of  the  house  by  themselves,  which  was  a great  pri- 
vilege— a bare  attic  room,  with,  on  one  side,  a 
sloping  roof,  no  carpet,  except  a small  piece  before 


56 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


each  small  bed,  and  the  most  meagre  furniture 
possible.  But  what  did  they  care  for  that?  They 
had  two  chairs  on  which  to  sit  and  chatter  facing 
each  other,  and  a little  table  for  their  books  and 
their  work.  They  had  a peep  at  the  sea  from  their 
window,  and  they  had  their  youth — what  could  any 
one  desire  more?  In  the  winter  nights,  when  it  was 
cold  sitting  up  in  their  fireless  room,  they  used  to 
lie  down  in  those  two  little  beds  side  by  side  and 
talk,  often  in  the  dark,  for  the  lights  had  to  be  ex- 
tinguished at  ten  o’clock.  They  had  not  spoken 
even  to  each  other  of  their  father’s  marriage.  This 
unexpected  event  had  shocked  and  bewildered  them 
in  the  fantastic  delicacy  of  their  age.  They  could 
not  bear  to  think  of  their  father  as  so  far  descended 
from  his  ideal  elevation,  and  shed  secret  tears  of 
rage  more  than  of  sorrow  when  they  thought  of 
their  mother  thus  superseded.  But  the  event  was 
too  terrible  for  words,  and  nothing  whatever  was 
said  of  it  between  them.  When  the  next  great  oc- 
currence, the  birth  of  the  two  babies,  was  intimated 
to  them,  their  feelings  were  different.  They  were 
first  indignant,  almost  annoyed;  then  amused;  in 
which  stage  Mab  made  such  a sketch  of  Miss  Brown 
with  a baby  in  each  arm,  and  Mr.  St.  John  pathe- 
tically looking  on,  that  they  both  burst  forth  into 
laughter,  and  the  bond  of  reserve  on  this  event  was 
broken;  and  then  all  at  once  an  interest  of  which 
they  were  half  ashamed  arose  in  their  minds.  They 
fell  silent  both  together  in  a wondering  reverie,  and 
then  Mab  said  to  Cicely,  turning  to  her  big  eyes 
of  surprise — 


THE  GIRLS  AT  SCHOOL. 


57 


^^They  belong  to  us  too,  I suppose.  What  are 
they  to  us?” 

course  our  half-brothers,”  said  Cicely;  and 
then  there  was  another  pause,  partly  of  awe  at  the 
thought  of  a relationship  so  mysterious,  and  partly 
because  it  was  within  five  minutes  of  ten.  Then 
the  candle  was  put  out,  and  they  jumped  into  their 
beds.  On  the  whole,  perhaps,  it  was  more  agree- 
able to  talk  of  their  father’s  other  children  in  the 
dark,  when  the  half- shame,  half-wonder  of  it  would 
not  appear  in  each  face. 

“Is  one  expected  to  be  fond  of  one’s  half-bro- 
ther?” said  Mab  doubtfully. 

“There  is  one  illusion  gone,”  said  Cicely,  in  all 
the  seriousness  of  sixteen.  “I  have  always  been 
cherishing  the  idea  that  when  we  were  quite  grown 
up,  instead  of  going  out  for  governesses  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort,  we  might  keep  together,  Mab, 
and  take  care  of  papa.” 

“But  then,”  said  Mab,  “what  would  you  have 
done  with  Mrs.  St.  John?  I don’t  see  that  the 
babies  make  much  difference.  She  is  there  to  take 
care  of  papa.” 

On  this  Cicely  gave  an  indignant  sigh,  but  hav- 
ing no  answer  ready  held  her  peace. 

“For  my  part,  I never  thought  of  that,”  said 
Mab.  “I  have  always  thought  it  such  a pity  I am 
not  a boy,  for  then  I should  have  been  the  brother 
and  you  the  sister,  and  I could  have  painted  and 
you  could  have  kept  my  house.  I’ll  tell  you  what 
I should  like,”  she  continued,  raising  herself  on  her 


58 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


elbow  with  the  excitement  of  the  thought;  “I  should 
like  if  we  two  could  go  out  into  the  world  like 
Rosalind  and  Celia. 


‘ Were  it  not  better. 

Because  that  I am  more  than  common  tall. 

That  I did  suit  me  all  points  like  a man?’  ” 

“But  you  are  not  more  than  common  tall,”  said 
Cicely,  with  unsympathetic  laughter;  “you  are  a 
little,  tiny,  insignificant  thing.” 

Mab  dropped  upon  her  pillow  half-crying.  “You 
have  no  feeling,”  she  said.  “Aunt  Jane  says  I 
shall  go  on  growing  for  two  years  yet.  Mamma 
did ” 

“If  you  please,”  said  Cicely,  “you  are  not  the 
one  that  is  like  mamma.” 

This  little  passage  of  arms  stopped  the  chatter. 
Cicely,  penitent,  would  have  renewed  it  after  an 
interval,  but  Mab  was  affronted.  Their  father's 
marriage,  however,  made  a great  difference  to  the 
girls,  even  before  the  appearance  of  the  “second 
family;”  the  fact  that  he  had  now  another  house- 
keeper and  companion,  and  was  independent  of 
them  affected  the  imagination  of  his  daughters, 
though  they  were  scarcely  conscious  of  it.  They 
no  longer  thought  of  going  home,  even  for  the 
longer  holidays;  and  settling  down  at  home  after 
their  schooling  was  over  had  become  all  at  once 
impossible.  Not  that  this  change  led  them  im- 
mediately to  make  new  plans  for  themselves;  for 
the  youthful  imagination  seldom  goes  so  far  un- 
guided except  when  character  is  very  much  deve- 
loped; and  the  two  were  only  unsettled,  uneasy,  not 


THE  GIRLS  AT  SCHOOL. 


59 


quite  knowing  what  was  to  become  of  them;  or 
rather,  it  was  Cicely  who  felt  the  unsettledness  and 
uneasiness  as  to  her  own  future.  Mab  had  never 
had  any  doubt  about  hers  since  she  was  ten  years 
old.  She  had  never  seen  any  pictures  to  speak  of, 
so  that  I cannot  say  she  was  a heavenborn  painter, 
for  she  scarcely  understood  what  that  was.  But 
she  meant  to  draw;  her  pencil  was  to  be  her  pro- 
fession, though  she  scarcely  knew  how  it  was  to  be 
wielded,  and  thus  she  was  delivered  from  all  her 
sister’s  vague  feelings  of  uncertainty.  Mab’s  powers, 
however,  had  not  been  appreciated  at  first  at  school, 
where  Miss  Maydew’s  large  assertions  as  to  her 
niece’s  cleverness  had  raised  corresponding  expec- 
tations. But  when  the  drawing-master  came  with 
his  little  stock  of  landscapes  to  be  copied,  Mab, 
quite  untutored  in  this  kind,  was  utterly  at  a loss. 
She  neither  knew  how  to  manage  her  colours,  nor 
how  to  follow  the  vague  lines  of  the  “copy,”  and  I 
cannot  describe  the  humiliation  of  the  sisters,  nor 
the  half  disappointment,  half  triumph,  of  Miss 
Blandy. 

“My  dear,  you  must  not  be  discouraged;  I am 
sure  you  did  as  well  as  you  could;  and  the  fact  is, 
we  have  a very  high  standard  here,”  the  schoolmis- 
tress said. 

It  happened,  however,  after  two  or  three  of  these 
failures  that  Cicely,  sent  by  Miss  Millicent  Blandy 
on  a special  message  into  that  retired  and  solemn 
chamber,  where  Miss  Blandy  the  elder  sister  sat  in 
the  mornings  supervising  and  correcting  everything, 
from  the  exercises  to  the  characters  of  her  pupils, 


6o  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

found  the  head  of  the  establishment  with  the  draw- 
ing-master looking  over  the  productions  of  the  week. 
He  had  Mab^s  drawing  in  his  hand,  and  he  was 
shaking  his  head  over  it. 

‘‘I  don’t  know  what  to  say  about  the  youngest 
Miss  St.  John.  This  figure  is  well  put  in,  but  her 
sky  and  her  distance  are  terrible,”  he  was  saying. 
“I  don’t  think  I shall  make  anything  of  her.” 

When  Cicely  heard  this  she  forgot  that  she  was 
a girl  at  school.  She  threw  down  a pile  of  books 
she  was  carrying,  and  flew  out  of  the  room  without 
a word,  making  a great  noise  with  the  door.  What 
she  ought  to  have  done  was  to  have  made  a curtsy, 
put  down  the  books  softly  by  Miss  Blandy’s  elbow, 
curtsied  again,  and  left  the  room  noiselessly,  in  all 
respects,  save  that  of  walking  backward  as  she 
would  have  done  at  Court.  Need  I describe  the 
look  of  dismay  that  came  into  Miss  Blandy’s  face? 

“These  girls  will  be  my  death,”  she  said. 
“Were  there  ever  such  colts? — worse  than  boys.” 
This  was  the  most  dreadful  condemnation  Miss 
Blandy  ever  uttered.  “If  their  aunt  does  not  insist 
upon  drawing,  as  she  has  so  little  real  talent,  she 
had  better  give  it  up.” 

At  this  moment  Cicely  burst  in  again  breathless, 
her  hair  streaming  behind  her,  her  dress  catching 
in  the  door,  which  she  slammed  after  her.  “Look 
here!”  she  cried;  “look  here,  before  you  say  Mab 
has  no  talent!”  and  she  tossed  down  on  the  table 
the  square  blue-lined  book,  which  her  sister 
by  this  time  had  almost  filled.  She  stood  before 
them  glowing  and  defiant,  with  flashing  eyes  and 


THE  GIRLS  AT  SCHOOL. 


6l 


flowing  hair;  then  she  recollected  some  guilty  recent 
pages,  and  quailed,  putting  out  her  hand  for  the 
book  again.  “Please  it  is  only  the  beginning,  not 
the  end,  you  are  to  look  at,”  she  said,  peremptory 
yet  appealing.  Had  Miss  Blandy  alone  been  in  the 
seat  of  judgment,  she  would,  I fear,  have  paid  but 
little  attention  to  this  appeal;  but  the  old  drawing- 
master  was  gentle  and  kind,  as  old  professors  of 
the  arts  so  often  are  (for  Art  is  Humanity,  I think, 
almost  oftener  than  letters),  and  besides,  the  young 
petitioner  was  very  pretty  in  her  generous  enthusiasm, 
which  affected  him  both  as  a man  and  an  artist. 
The  first  page  at  once  gave  him  a guess  as  to  the 
inexpediency  of  examining  the  last;  and  the  old 
man  perceived  in  a moment  at  once  the  mistake  he 
had  made,  and  the  cause  of  it.  He  turned  over  the 
first  few  pages,  chuckling  amused  approbation.  “So 
these  are  your  sister’s,”  he  said,  and  laughed  and 
nodded  his  kind  old  head.  When  he  came  to  a 
sketch  of  Hannah,  the  maid-of-all-work  at  the 
rectory,  the  humour  of  which  might  seem  more  per- 
missible in  Miss  Blandy’s  eyes  than  the  caricatures 
of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  he  showed  it  to  her;  and 
even  Miss  Blandy,  though  meditating  downright 
slaughter  upon  Cicely,  could  not  restrain  a smile. 
“Is  this  really  Mabel’s?”  she  condescended  to  ask. 
“As  you  say,  Mr.  Lake,  not  at  all  bad;  much  better 
than  I could  have  thought.” 

“Better?  it  is  capital!”  said  the  drawing-master; 
and  then  he  shut  up  the  book  close,  and  put  it 
back  in  Cicely’s  hands.  “I  see  there  are  private 
scribblings  in  it,”  he  said,  with  a significant  look; 


62 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


“take  it  back,  my  dear.  I will  speak  to  Miss  Mabel 
to-morrow.  And  now,  Miss  Blandy,  we  will  finish 
our  business,  if  you  please,”  he  said  benevolently, 
to  leave  time  for  Cicely  and  her  dangerous  volume 
to  escape.  Miss  Blandy  was  vanquished  by  this 
stratagem,  and  Cicely,  beginning  to  tremble  at  the 
thought  of  the  danger  she  had  escaped,  withdrew 
very  demurely,  having  first  piled  up  on  the  table  the 
books  she  had  thrown  down  in  her  impetuosity.  I 
may  add  at  once  that  she  did  not  escape  without 
an  address,  in  which  withering  irony  alternated  with 
solemn  appeal  to  her  best  feelings,  and  which  drew 
many  hot  tears  from  poor  Cicely's  eyes,  but  other- 
wise so  far  as  I am  aware  did  her  no  harm. 

Thus  Mab's  gifts  found  acknowledgment  at 
Miss  Blandy's.  The  old  drawing-master  shook  his 
fine  flexible  old  artist  hand  at  her.  “You  take  us 
all  off,  young  lady,”  he  said;  “you  spare  no  one; 
but  it  is  so  clever  that  I forgive  you;  and  by  way 
of  punishment  you  must  work  hard,  now  I know 
what  you  can  do.  And  don't  show  that  book  of 
yours  to  anybody  but  me.  Miss  Blandy  would  not 
take  it  so  well  as  I do.” 

“Oh,  dear  Mr.  Lake,  forgive  me,”  said  Mab, 
smitten  with  compunction;  “I  will  never  do  it 
again ! ” 

“Never,  till  the  next  time,”  he  said,  shaking  his 
head;  “but,  anyhow,  keep  it  to  yourself,  for  it  is  a 
dangerous  gift.” 

And  from  that  day  he  put  her  on  “the  figure” 
and  “the  round” — studies,  in  which  Mab  at  first 
showed  little  more  proficiency  than  she  had  done 


THE  GIRLS  AT  SCHOOL. 


63 


in  the  humbler  sphere  of  landscape;  for  having 
leapt  all  at  once  into  the  exercise  of  something 
that  felt  like  original  art,  this  young  lady  did  not 
care  to  go  back  to  the  elements.  However,  what 
with  the  force  of  school  discipline,  and  some  glim- 
merings of  good  sense  in  her  own  juvenile  bosom, 
she  was  kept  to  it,  and  soon  found  the  ground 
steady  under  her  feet  once  more,  and  made  rapid 
progress.  By  the  time  they  had  been  three  years 
at  school,  she  was  so  proficient,  that  Mr.  Lake,  on 
retiring,  after  a hard- worked  life,  to  well-earned 
leisure,  recommended  her  as  his  successor.  So  that 
by  seventeen,  a year  before  Mrs.  St.  John’s  death, 
Mab  had  released  Miss  Maydew  and  her  father 
from  all  responsibility  on  her  account.  Cicely  was 
not  so  clever;  but  she,  too,  had  begun  to  help  Miss 
Blandy  in  preference  to  returning  to  the  rectory 
and  being  separated  from  her  sister.  Vague  teach- 
ing of  “English”  and  music  is  not  so  profitable  as 
an  unmistakable  and  distinct  art  like  drawing;  but 
it  was  better  than  setting  out  upon  a strange  world 
alone,  or  going  back  to  be  a useless  inmate  of  the 
rectory.  As  teachers  the  girls  were  both  worse  off 
and  better  off  than  as  pupils.  They  were  worse  off 
because  it  is  a descent  in  the  social  scale  to  come 
down  from  the  level  of  those  who  pay  to  be  taught, 
to  the  level  of  those  who  are  paid  for  teaching — 
curious  though  the  paradox  seems  to  be;  and  they 
were  better  off,  in  so  far  as  they  were  free  from 
some  of  the  restrictions  of  school,  and  had  a kind 
of  independent  standing.  They  were  allowed  to 
keep  their  large  attic,  the  bare  walls  of  which  were 


64  the  curate  in  charge. 

now  half  covered  by  Mab’s  drawings,  and  which 
Cicely’s  instinctive  art  of  household  management 
made  to  look  more  cheery  and  homelike  than  any 
other  room  in  the  house.  They  were  snubbed 
sometimes  by  ‘^parents,”  who  thought  the  manners 
of  these  Miss  St.  Johns  too  easy  and  familiar,  as  if 
they  were  on  an  equality  with  their  pupils;  and  by 
Miss  Blandy,  who  considered  them  much  too  inde- 
pendent in  their  ways;  and  now  and  then  had 
mortifications  to  bear  which  are  not  pleasant  to 
girls.  But  there  were  two  of  them,  which  was  a 
great  matter;  and  in  the  continual  conversation 
which  they  carried  on  about  everything,  they  con- 
soled each  other.  No  doubt  it  was  hard  sometimes 
to  hear  music  sounding  from  the  open  windows  of 
the  great  house  in  the  square,  where  their  old 
schoolfellow.  Miss  Robinson,  had  come  to  live,  and 
to  see  the  carriages  arriving,  and  all  the  glory  of 
the  ball-dresses,  of  which  the  two  young  governesses 
got  a glimpse  as  they  went  out  for  a stroll  on  the 
beach  in  the  summer  twilight,  an  indulgence  which 
Miss  Blandy  disapproved  of. 

“Now,  why  should  people  be  so  different?” 
Cicely  said,  moralizing;  “why  should  we  have  so 
little,  and  Alice  Robinson  so  much?  It  don’t  seem 
fair.” 

“And  we  are  not  even  prettier  than  she  is,  or 
gooder — which  we  ought  to  be,  if  there  is  any 
truth  in  compensation,”  said  Mab,  with  a laugh. 

“Or  happier,”  said  Cicely,  with  a sigh.  “She 
has  the  upper  hand  of  us  in  everything,  and  no 
balance  on  the  other  side  to  make  up  for  it.  Stay, 


TPIE  GIRLS  AT  SCHOOL. 


65 


though;  she  has  very  droll  people  for  father  and 
mother,  and  we  have  a very  fine  gentleman  for  our 
papa/' 

‘'Poor  papa!"  said  Mab.  They  interchanged 
moods  with  each  other  every  ten  minutes,  and  were 
never  monotonous,  or  for  a long  time  the  same. 

“You  may  say  why  should  people  be  so  dif- 
ferent," said  Cicely,  forgetting  that  it  was  herself 
who  said  it.  “There  is  papa,  now;  he  is  delightful, 
but  he  is  trying.  When  one  thinks  how  altered 
everything  is — and  those  two  little  babies.  But 
yet,  you  know,  we  ought  to  ask  ourselves,  ‘Were 
we  happier  at  home , or  are  we  happier  here  ? ' " 

“We  have  more  variety  here,"  said  Mab  deci- 
sively; “there  is  the  sea,  for  one  thing;  there  we 
had  only  the  garden." 

“You  forget  the  common;  it  was  as  nice  as  any 
sea,  and  never  drowned  people,  or  did  anything 
dangerous;  and  the  forest,  and  the  sunset." 

“There  are  sunsets  here,"  said  Mab, — “very  fine 
ones.  We  are  not  forgotten  by  the  people  who 
manage  these  things  up  above.  And  there  is  plenty 
of  work;  and  the  girls  are  amusing,  and  so  are  the 
parents." 

“We  should  have  had  plenty  of  work  at  home," 
said  Cicely;  and  then  the  point  being  carried  as 
far  as  was  necessary  the  discussion  suddenly  stopped. 
They  were  walking  along  the  sands,  almost  entirely 
alone.  Only  here  and  there  another  group  would 
pass  them,  or  a solitary  figure,  chiefly  tradespeople, 
taking  their  evening  stroll.  The  fresh  sea-breeze 
blew  in  their  young  faces,  the  soft  dusk  closed 

The  Curate  in  Charge,  5 


66 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


down  over  the  blue  water,  which  beat  upon  the 
shore  at  their  feet  in  the  softest  whispering  cadence. 
The  air  was  all  musical,  thrilled  softly  by  this  hush 
of  subdued  sound.  It  put  away  the  sound  of  the 
band  at  Miss  Robinson’s  ball  out  of  the  girls’  hearts. 
And  yet  balls  are  pleasant  things  at  eighteen,  and 
when  two  young  creatures,  quite  deprived  of  such 
pleasures,  turn  their  backs  thus  upon  the  enchanted 
place  where  the  others  are  dancing,  it  would  be 
strange  if  a touch  of  forlorn  sentiment  did  not 
make  itself  felt  in  their  hearts,  though  the  soft  fall- 
ing of  the  dusk,  and  the  hush  of  the  great  sea,  and 
the  salt  air  in  their  faces,  gave  them  a pleasure, 
had  they  but  known  it,  more  exquisite  than  any 
mere  ball,  as  a ball,  ever  confers.  One  only  knows 
this,  however,  by  reflection,  never  by  immediate 
sensation;  and  so  there  was,  as  I have  said,  just  a 
touch  of  pathos  in  their  voices,  and  a sense  of 
superiority,  comfortable  only  in  that  it  was  superior, 
but  slightly  sad  otherwise,  in  their  hearts. 

‘T  don’t  know  what  makes  me  go  on  thinking 
of  home,”  said  Cicely,  after  a pause.  ^Tf  we  had 
been  at  home  we  should  have  had  more  pleasure, 
Mab.  The  people  about  would  have  asked  us — a 
clergyman’s  daughters  always  get  asked;  and  there 
are  very  nice  people  about  Brentburn,  very  different 
from  the  Robinsons  and  their  class.” 

“We  should  have  had  no  dresses  to  go  in,”  said 
Mab.  “How  could  we  ever  have  had  ball-dresses 
off  papa’s  two  hundred  a year?” 

“Ball-dresses  sound  something  very  grand,  but 
a plain  white  tarlatan  is  not  dear  when  one  can 


THE  GIRLS  AT  SCHOOL. 


67 


make  it  up  one’s  self.  However,  that  is  a poor  way 
of  looking  at  it,”  said  Cicely,  giving  a little  toss 
to  her  head,  as  if  to  throw  off  such  unelevated 
thoughts.  “There  are  a great  many  more  important 
things  to  think  of.  How  will  he  ever  manage  to 
bring  up  the  two  boys?” 

Mab  made  a pause  of  reflection.  “To  be  sure 
Aunt  Jane  is  not  their  relation,”  she  said,  “and 
boys  are  more  troublesome  than  girls.  They  want 
to  have  tutors  and  things,  and  to  go  to  the  univer- 
sity; and  then  what  is  the  good  of  it  all  if  they  are 
not  clever?  Certainly  boys  are  far  more  trouble- 
some than  girls.” 

“And  then,  if  you  consider  papa,”  said  Cicely, 
“that  he  is  not  very  strong,  and  that  he  is  old.  One 
does  not  like  to  say  anything  disagreeable  about 
one’s  papa,  but  what  did  he  want  with  those  chil- 
dren? Surely  we  were  quite  enough  when  he  is  so 
poor.” 

“There  is  always  one  thing  he  can  do,”  said 
Mab.  “Everybody  says  he  is  a very  good  scholar. 
He  will  have  to  teach  them  himself.” 

“We  shall  have  to  teach  them,”  said  Cicely  with 
energy;  “I  know  so  well  that  this  is  what  it  will 
come  to.  I don’t  mean  to  teach  them  ourselves, 
for  it  is  not  much  Latin  I know,  and  you  none, 
and  I have  not  a word  of  Greek — but  they  will 
come  upon  us,  I am  quite  sure.” 

“You  forget  Mrs.  St.  John,”  said  Mab. 

Cicely  gave  a slight  shrug  of  her  shoulders,  but 
beyond  that  she  did  not  pursue  the  subject.  Mrs. 
St.  John’s  name  stopped  everything;  they  could  not 

5* 


68 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


discuss  her,  nor  express  their  disapprobation,  and 
therefore  they  forbore  religiously,  though  it  was 
sometimes  hard  work. 

“Blandina  will  think  we  are  late,”  at  last  she 
said,  turning  round.  This  was  their  name  for  their 
former  instructress,  their  present  employer.  Mab 
turned  dutifully,  obeying  her  sister’s  touch,  but  with 
a faint  sigh. 

‘T  hope  they  will  be  quiet  at  the  Robinsons  as 
we  are  passing,”  the  girl  said.  ‘‘What  if  they  are 
in  full  swing,  with  the  ‘Blue  Danube’  perhaps!  I 
hate  to  go  in  from  a sweet  night  like  this  with  noisy 
fiddles  echoing  through  my  head.” 

Cicely  gave  a slight  squeeze  of  sympathy  to  her 
sister’s  arm.  Do  not  you  understand  the  girls, 
young  reader?  It  was  not  the  “Blue  Danube”  that 
was  being  played,  but  the  old  Lancers,  the  which 
to  hear  is  enough  to  make  wooden  legs  dance. 
Cicely  and  Mab  pressed  each  other’s  arms,  and 
glanced  up  at  the  window,  where  dancing  shadows 
and  figures  were  visible.  They  sighed,  and  they 
went  into  their  garret,  avoiding  the  tacit  disapproval 
of  Miss  Blandy’s  good-night.  She  did  not  approve 
of  twilight  walks.  Why  should  they  want  to  go 
out  just  then  like  the  tradespeople,  a thing  which 
ladies  never  did?  But  if  Miss  Blandy  had  known 
that  the  girls  were  quite  saddened  by  the- sound  of 
the  music  from  the  Robinsons’,  and  yet  could  not 
sleep  for  listening  to  it,  I fear  she  would  have 
thought  them  very  improper  young  persons  indeed. 
She  had  forgotten  how  it  felt  to  be  eighteen — -it 
was  so  long  ago. 


THE  GIRLS  AT  SCHOOL. 


69 


On  the  very  next  morning  the  news  came 
of  their  stepmother’s  death.  It  was  entirely  unex- 
pected by  them , for  they  had  no  idea  of  the 
gradual  weakness  which  had  been  stealing  over 
that  poor  little  woman,  and  they  were  moved  by 
deep  compunction  as  well  as  natural  regret.  It  is 
impossible  not  to  feel  that  we  might  have  been 
kinder,  might  have  made  life  happier  to  those  that 
are  gone — a feeling  experienced  the  moment  that 
we  know  them  to  be  certainly  gone,  and  inacces- 
sible to  all  kindness.  ^‘Oh,  poor  Mrs.  St.  John!” 
said  Mab,  dropping  a few  natural  tears.  Cicely 
was  more  deeply  affected.  She  was  the  eldest  and 
had  thought  the  most;  as  for  the  young  artist,  her 
feeling  ran  into  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and  got 
expansion  there;  but  Cicely  had  no  such  medium. 
She  went  about  mournfully  all  day  long,  and  in 
the  evening  Mab  found  her  seated  at  the  window 
of  their  attic,  looking  out  with  her  eyes  big  with 
tears  upon  the  darkening  sea.  When  her  sister 
touched  her  on  the  shoulder  Cicely’s  tears  fell. 
‘‘Oh,  poor  Miss  Brown!”  she  said,  her  heart  having 
gone  back  to  the  time  when  they  had  no  grievance 
against  their  kind  little  governess.  “Oh,  Mab,  if 
one  could  only  tell  her  how  one  was  sorry!  if  she 
could  only  see  into  my  heart  now!” 

“Perhaps  she  can,”  said  Mab,  awe-stricken  and 
almost  under  her  breath,  lifting  her  eyes  to  the 
clear  wistful  horizon  in  which  the  evening  star  had 
just  risen. 

“And  one  could  have  said  it  only  yesterday!” 
said  Cicely,  realizing  for  the  first  time  that  mystery 


70 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


of  absolute  severance;  and  what  light  thoughts  had 
been  in  their  minds  yesterday!  Sighs  for  Alice 
Robinson’s  ball,  depression  of  soul  and  spirit  caused 
by  the  distant  strains  of  the  Lancers,  and  the  “Blue 
Danube” — while  this  tragedy  was  going  on,  and  the 
poor  soul  who  had  been  good  to  them,  but  to 
whom  they  had  not  been  good,  was  departing,  alto- 
gether and  for  ever  out  of  reach.  Cicely  in  her 
sorrow  blamed  herself  unjustly,  as  was  natural,  and 
mourned  for  the  mystery  of  human  shortsighted- 
ness as  well  as  for  Mrs.  St.  John.  But  I do  not 
mean  to  say  that  this  grief  was  very  profound  after 
the  first  sting,  and  after  that  startling  impression  of 
the  impossibility  of  further  intercourse  was  over. 
The  girls  went  out  quietly  in  the  afternoon,  and 
bought  black  stuff  to  make  themselves  mourning, 
and  spoke  to  each  other  in  low  voices  and  grave 
tones.  Their  youthful  vigour  was  subdued — they 
were  overawed  to  feel  as  it  were  the  wings  of  the 
great  Death-Angel  overshadowing  them.  The  very 
sunshine  looked  dim,  and  the  world  enveloped  in 
a cloud.  But  it  was  within  a week  or  two  of  Miss 
Blandy’s  “breaking  up,”  and  they  could  not  go 
away  immediately.  Miss  Blandy  half  audibly  ex- 
pressed her  satisfaction  that  Mrs.  St.  John  was  only 
their  step-mother.  “Had  she  been  their  own  mother, 
what  should  we  have  done?”  she  said.  So  that  it 
was  not  till  the  end  of  July,  when  the  establishment 
broke  up,  that  the  girls  were  at  last  able  to  get 
home. 


THE  GIRLS  AT  HOME. 


71 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  Girls  at  Home. 

We  are  so  proud  in  England  of  having  a word 
which  means  home,  which  some  of  our  neighbours 
we  are  pleased  to  think  have  not,  that,  perhaps,  it 
is  a temptation  to  us  to  indulge  in  a general  rapture 
over  the  word  which  has  sometim^es  little  foundation 
in  reality.  When  Cicely  and  Mab  walked  to  the 
rectory  together  from  the  station  a suppressed  ex- 
citement was  in  their  minds.  Since  they  first  left 
for  school,  they  had  only  come  back  for  a few  days 
each  year,  and  they  had  not  liked  it.  Their  step- 
mother had  been  very  kind,  painfully  kind;  and 
anxious  above  measure  that  they  should  find  every- 
thing as  they  had  left  it,  and  should  not  be  dis- 
appointed or  dull;  but  this  very  anxiety  had  made 
an  end  of  all  natural  ease,  and  they  had  been  glad 
when  the  moment  came  that  released  them.  Now, 
poor  woman,  she  had  been  removed  out  of  their 
way;  they  were  going  back  to  take  care  of  their 
father  as  they  might  have  done  had  there  been  no 
second  Mrs.  St.  John;  and  everything  was  as  it  had 
been,  with  the  addition  of  the  two  babies,  innocent 
little  intruders,  whom  the  girls,  you  may  be  sure, 
could  never  find  it  in  their  hearts  to  be  hard  upon. 
Cicely  and  Mab  took  each  others’  hands  instinc- 
tively as  they  left  the  station.  It  was  the  first  of 
August,  the  very  prime  and  glory  of  summer;  the 
woods  were  at  their  fullest,  untouched  by  any  symp- 


7^ 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


tom  of  decay.  The  moorland  side  of  the  landscape 
was  more  wealthy  and  glorious  still  in  its  flush  of 
heather.  The  common  was  not  indeed  one  sheet  of 
purple,  like  a Scotch  moor;  but  it  was  all  lighted 
up  between  the  gorse  bushes  with  fantastic  streaks 
and  bands  of  colour  blazing  in  the  broad  sunshine, 
and  haunted  by  swarms  of  bees  which  made  a hum 
in  the  air  almost  as  sweet  and  all-pervading  as  the 
murmur  of  the  sea.  As  they  drew  near  the  house 
their  hearts  began  to  beat  louder.  Would  there  be 
any  visible  change  upon  it?  Would  it  look  as  it 
did  when  they  were  children,  or  with  that  indefin- 
able difference  which  showed  in  her  time?  They 
did  not  venture  to  go  the  familiar  way  by  the 
garden,  but  walked  up  solemnly  like  vistors  to  the 
front  door.  It  was  opened  to  them  by  a new  maid, 
whom  they  had  never  seen  before,  and  who  de- 
murred slightly  to  giving  them  admittance.  ‘‘Master 
ain’t  in,”  said  the  girl;  “yes,  miss,  I know  as  you’re 
expected,”  but  still  she  hesitated.  This  was  not  the 
kind  of  welcome  which  the  daughters  of  a house 
generally  receive.  They  went  in  to  the  house 
nevertheless,  Betsy  following  them.  The  blinds 
were  drawn  low  over  the  windows,  which  were  all 
shut;  and  though  the  atmosphere  was  stifling  with 
heat,  yet  it  was  cold,  miserably  cold  to  Cicely  and 
Mab.  Their  father’s  study  was  the  only  place  that 
had  any  life  in  it.  The  rectory  seemed  full  of  no- 
thing but  old  black  heavy  furniture,  and  heavier 
memories  of  some  chilled  and  faded  past. 

“What  a dreadful  old  place  it  is,”  said  Mab; 
“it  is  like  coming  home  to  one’s  grave,”  and  she 


THE  GIRLS  AT  HOME. 


73 


sat  down  on  the  black  haircloth  easy-chair  and 
shivered  and  cried;  though  this  was  coming  home, 
to  the  house  in  which  she  had  been  born. 

“Now  it  will  be  better,’^  said  Cicely  pulling  up 
the  blinds  and  opening  the  window.  She  had  more 
command  of  herself  than  her  sister.  She  let  the 
sunshine  come  down  in  a flood  across  the  dingy 
carpet,  worn  with  the  use  of  twenty  years. 

“Please,  miss,’^  said  Betsy  interposing,  “missis 
would  never  have  the  blinds  up  in  this  room  ’cause 
of  spoiling  the  carpet.  If  master  says  so,  I don’t 

mind;  but  till  he  do ” and  here  Betsy  put  up 

her  hand  to  the  blind. 

“Do  you  venture  to  meddle  with  what  my 
sister  does?”  cried  Mab,  furious,  springing  from 
her  chair. 

Cicely  only  laughed.  “You  are  a good  girl  to 
mind  what  your  mistress  said,  but  we  are  your 
mistresses  now;  you  must  let  the  window  alone, 
for  don’t  you  see  the  carpet  is  spoiled  already?  I 
will  answer  to  papa.  What  is  it?  Do  you  want 
anything  more?” 

“Only  this,  miss,”  said  Betsy,  “as  it’s  the  first 
laugh  as  has  been  heard  here  for  weeks  and  weeks, 
and  I don’t  like  it  neither,  seeing  as  missis  is  in  her 
grave  only  a fortnight  to-day.” 

“I  think  you  are  a very  good  girl,”  said  Cicely: 
and  with  that  the  tears  stood  in  that  changeable 
young  woman’s  eyes. 

No  Betsy  that  ever  was  heard  of  could  long 
resist  this  sort  of  treatment.  “I  tries  to  be,  miss,” 
she  said  with  a curtsy  and  a whimper,  “Maybe 


74 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


you’d  like  a cup  of  tea?”  and  after  following  them 
suspiciously  all  over  the  house,  she  left  them  at 
last  on  this  hospitable  intent  in  the  fading  drawing- 
room, where  they  had  both  enshrined  the  memory 
of  their  mother.  Another  memory  was  there  now, 
a memory  as  faded  as  the  room,  which  showed  in 
all  kinds  of  feeble  feminine  decorations,  bits  of 
modern  lace,  and  worked  cushions  and  foolish  foot- 
stools. The  room  was  all  pinafored  and  transmo- 
grified, the  old  dark  picture-frames  covered  with 
yellow  gauze,  and  the  needlework  in  crackling  semi- 
transparent covers. 

“This  was  how  she  liked  things,  poor  soul! 
Oh,  Mab,”  cried  Cicely,  “how  strange  that  she 
should  die!” 

“No  stranger  than  that  any  one  else  should  die,” 
said  Mab,  who  was  more  matter  of  fact. 

“A  great  deal  stranger!  It  was  not  strange  at 
all  that  little  Mary  Seymour  should  die.  One  saw 
it  in  her  eyes;  she  was  like  an  angel;  it  was  na- 
tural; but  poor  Miss  Brown,  who  was  quite  happy 
working  cushions  and  covering  them  up,  and  keep- 
ing the  sun  olf  the  carpets,  and  making  lace  for  the 
brackets!  It  looks  as  if  there  was  so  little  sense  or 
method  in  it,”  said  Cicely.  “She  won’t  have  any 
cushions  to  work  up  there.” 

“I  dare  say  there  won’t  be  anything  to  draw  up 
there,”  said  Mab;  “and  yet  I suppose  I shall  die 
too  in  time.” 

“When  there  are  the  four  walls  for  Leonardo, 
and  Michel  Angelo  and  Raphael  and  poor  Andrea,” 
said  the  other.  “How  you  forget!  Besides,  it  is 


THE  GIRLS  AT  HOME. 


75 


quite  different.  Hark!  what  was  that?”  she  cried, 
putting  up  her  hand. 

What  it  was  soon  became  very  distinctly  evident 
— a feeble  little  cry  speedily  joined  by  another,  and 
then  a small  weak  chorus,  two  voices  entangled 
together.  ^‘No,  no;  no  ladies.  Harry  no  like 
ladies,”  mixed  with  a whimpering  appeal  to  “papa, 
papa.” 

“Come  and  see  the  pretty  ladies.  Harry  never 
saw  such  pretty  ladies,”  said  the  encouraging  voice 
of  Betsy  in  the  passage. 

The  girls  looked  at  each  other,  and  grew  red. 
They  had  made  up  their  minds  about  a great  many 
things,  but  never  how  they  were  to  deal  with  the 
two  children.  Then  Betsy  appeared  at  the  door, 
pushing  it  open  before  her  with  the  tea-tray  she 
carried.  To  her  skirts  were  hanging  two  little 
boys,  clinging  to  her,  yet  resisting  her  onward  mo- 
tion, and  carried  on  by  it  in  spite  of  themselves. 
They  stared  at  the  new-comers  with  big  blue  eyes 
wide  open,  awed  into  silence.  They  were  very 
small  and  very  pale,  with  light  colourless  limp 
locks  falling  over  their  little  black  dresses.  The 
girls  on  their  side  stared  silently  too.  There  was 
not  a feature  in  the  children’s  faces  which  resembled 
their  elder  sisters.  They  were  both  little  miniatures 
of  Miss  Brown. 

“So  these  are  the  children,”  said  Cicely,  mak- 
ing a reluctant  step  forward;  to  which  Harry  and 
Charley  responded  by  a renewed  clutch  at  Betsy’s 
dress. 

“Yes,  miss;  them’s  the  children!  and  darlings 


76 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


they  be,”  said  Betsy,  looking  fondly  at  them  as  she 
set  down  the  tea.  Cicely  made  another  step  for- 
ward slowly,  and  held  out  her  hands  to  them;  when 
the  little  boys  set  up  a scream  which  rang  through 
the  house,  and  hiding  their  faces  simultaneously  in 
Betsy’s  gown,  howled  to  be  taken  away.  Mab  put 
up  her  hands  to  her  ears,  but  Cicely,  more  anxious 
to  do  her  duty,  made  another  attempt.  She  stooped 
down  and  kissed,  or  tried  to  kiss  the  little  tear- 
stained  faces,  to  which  caress  each  small  brother 
replied  by  pushing  her  away  with  a repeated  roar. 

‘‘Don’t  you  take  no  notice,  miss.  Let  ’em 
alone  and  they’ll  get  used  to  you  in  time,”  said 
Betsy. 

“Go  away,  go  away!  Harry  no  like  ’oo,” 
screamed  the  spokesman  brother.  No  one  likes  to 
be  repulsed  even  by  a child.  Cicely  stumbled  to 
her  feet  very  red  and  uncomfortable.  She  stood 
ruefully  looking  after  them  as  they  were  carried  off 
after  a good  preliminary  “shake,”  one  in  each  of 
Betsy’s  red  hands. 

“There  is  our  business  in  life,”  she  said  in  a 
solemn  tone.  “Oh,  Mab,  Mab,  what  did  papa  want 
with  these  children?  All  the  trouble  of  them  will 
come  on  you  and  me.” 

Mab  looked  at  her  sister  with  a look  of  alarm, 
which  changed,  however,  into  laughter  at  sight  of 
Cicely’s  solemn  looks  and  the  dreary  presentiment 
in  her  face. 

“You  are  excellent  like  that,”  she  said;  “and  if 
you  had  only  seen  how  funny  you  all  looked  when 
the  little  demons  began  to  cry.  They  will  do  for 


THE  GIRLS  AT  HOME. 


77 


models  at  all  events,  and  Til  take  to  painting  chil- 
dren. They  say  if  s very  good  practice,  and  nursery 
pictures  always  sell.^’ 

These  lighter  suggestions  did  not,  however, 
console  Cicely.  She  walked  about  the  room  with 
clasped  hands  and  a very  serious  face,  neglecting 
her  tea. 

‘‘Papa  will  never  trouble  himself  about  them,’^ 
she  said  half  to  herself;  “it  will  all  fall  on  Mab  and 
me.  And  boys!  that  they  should  be  boys.  We 
shall  never  be  rich  enough  to  send  them  to  the 
University.  Girls  we  might  have  taught  ourselves; 
but  when  you  think  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge 

“We  can’t  tell,”  said  Mab;  “how  do  you  know 
I shan’t  turn  out  a great  painter,  and  be  able  to 
send  them  wherever  you  like?  for  I am  the  brother 
and  you  are  the  sister,  Ciss.  You  are  to  keep  my 
house  and  have  the  spending  of  all  my  money. 
So  don’t  be  gloomy,  please,  but  pour  out  some  tea. 
I wish,  though,  they  were  not  quite  so  plain.” 

“So  like  their  mother,”  said  Cicely  with  a 
sigh. 

“And  so  disagreeable;  but  it  is  funny  to  hear 
one  speak  for  both  as  if  the  two  were  Hariy.  I 
am  glad  they  are  not  girls.  To  give  them  a share 
of  all  we  have  I don’t  mind;  but  to  teach  them! 
with  those  white  little  pasty  faces ” 

“One  can  do  anything  when  one  makes  up 
one’s  mind  to  it,”  said  Cicely  with  a sigh. 

At  this  moment  the  hall  door  opened,  and  after 
an  interval  Mr.  St.  John  came  in  with  soft  steps. 
He  had  grown  old  in  these  last  years;  bowed  down 


78  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

with  age  and  troubles.  He  came  up  to  his  daugh- 
ters and  kissed  them,  laying  his  hand  upon  their 
heads. 

“I  am  very  glad  you  have  come  home,’^  he  said, 
in  a voice  which  was  pathetic  in  its  feebleness.  ‘‘You 
are  all  I have  now.’^ 

“Not  all  you  have,  papa,’^  said  Mab;  “we  have 
just  seen  the  little  boys.’^ 

A momentary  colour  flushed  over  his  pale  face. 
“Ah,  the  babies,’^  he  said.  “I  am  afraid  they  will 
be  a great  deal  of  trouble  to  you,  my  dears.’^ 

Cicely  and  Mab  looked  at  each  other,  but  they 
did  not  say  anything — they  were  afraid  to  say 
something  which  they  ought  not  to  say.  And  what 
could  he  add  after  that?  He  took  the  cup  of  tea 
they  offered  him,  and  drank  it  standing,  his  tall 
frame  with  a stoop  in  it,  which  was  partly  age  and 
partly  weakness,  coming  against  one  tall  window 
and  shutting  out  the  light.  “But  that  you  are 
older  looking,^’  he  said  at  last,  “all  this  time  might 
seem  like  a dream.” 

“A  sad  dream,  papa,”  said  Cicely,  not  know- 
ing what  to  say. 

“I  cannot  say  that,  my  dear.  I thank  God  I 
have  had  a great  deal  of  happiness  in  my  life;  be- 
cause we  are  sad  for  the  moment  we  must  not 
forget  to  thank  Him  for  all  His  mercies,”  said  Mr. 
St.  John;  and  then  with  a change  in  his  voice,  he 
added,  “Your  aunt  sends  me  word  that  she  is  com- 
ing soon  to  see  you.  She  is  a very  strong  woman 
for  her  years;  I look  older  than  she  does;  and  it  is. 


THE  GIRLS  AT  HOME.  79 

a trouble  to  me  now  to  go  to  town  and  back  in 
one  day.” 

‘^You  have  not  been  ill,  papa?” 

“No,  Cicely,  not  ill;  a little  out  of  my  usual,” 
he  said,  “that  is  all.  Now  you  are  here,  we  shall 
fall  into  our  quiet  way  again.  The  changes  God 
sends  we  must  accept;  but  the  little  worries  are 
trying,  my  dear.  I am  getting  old,  and  am  not  so 
able  to  brave  them;  but  all  will  be  well  now  you 
are  here.” 

“We  shall  do  all  we  can,”  said  Cicely;  “but 
you  must  remember,  papa,  we  are  not  used 
to  housekeeping,  and  if  we  make  mistakes  at 
first ” 

“I  am  not  afraid  of  your  mistakes,”  said  Mr. 
St.  John,  looking  at  her  with  a faint  smile.  He 
had  scarcely  looked  full  at  her  before,  and  his  eyes 
dwelt  upon  her  face  with  a subdued  pleasure.  “You 
are  your  mother  over  again,”  he  said.  “You  will 
be  a blessing  to  me,  Cicely,  as  she  was.” 

The  two  girls  looked  at  him  strangely,  with  a 
flood  of  conflicting  thoughts.  How  dared  he  speak 
of  their  mother?  Was  he  relieved  to  be  able  to 
think  of  their  mother  without  Miss  Brown  coming 
in  to  disturb  his  thoughts?  If  natural  reverence 
had  not  restrained  them,  what  a cross-examination 
they  would  have  put  him  to!  but  as  it  was,  their 
eager  thoughts  remained  unsaid.  “I  will  do  all  I 
can,  papa,  and  so  will  Mab,”  said  Cicely,  faltering. 
And  he  put  down  his  cup,  and  said,  “God  bless 
you,  my  dears,”  and  went  to  his  study  as  if  they 


8o 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


had  never  been  absent  at  all,  only  out  perhaps,  as 
Mab  said,  for  a rather  long  walk. 

“I  don’t  think  he  can  have  cared  for  her,”  said 
Cicely;  ^‘he  is  glad  to  get  back  to  the  idea  of 
mamma;  I am  sure  that  is  what  he  means.  He  is 
always  kind,  and  of  course  he  was  kind  to  her; 
but  there  is  a sort  of  relief  in  his  tone — a sort  of 
ease.” 

‘‘That  is  all  very  well  for  us,”  said  Mab;  “but 
if  you  will  think  of  it,  it  seems  a little  hard  on  poor 
Miss  Brown.” 

This  staggered  Cicely,  who  loved  justice.  “But 
I think  she  should  not  have  married  him,”  she 
said.  “It  was  easy  to  see  that  anybody  could  have 
married  him  who  wished.  I can  see  that  now, 
though  I never  thought  of  it  then.  And,  kind  as  it 
was  of  Aunt  Jane,  perhaps  we  should  not  have  left 
him  unprotected.  You  ought  to  have  gone  to 
school,  Mab,  because  of  your  talent,  and  I should 
have  stayed  at  home.” 

They  decided,  however,  after  a few  minutes, 
that  it  was  needless  to  discuss  this  possibility  now, 
so  long  after  it  had  become  an  impossibility.  And 
then  they  went  upstairs  to  take  off  their  travelling- 
dresses  and  make  themselves  feel  at  home.  When 
they  came  down  again,  with  their  hair  smooth. 
Cicely  carrying  her  work-basket  and  Mab  her 
sketch-book,  and  seated  themselves  in  the  old 
faded  room,  from  which  the  sunshine  had  now  slid 
away,  as  the  sun  got  westward,  a bewildered  feel- 
ing took  possession  of  them.  Had  they  ever  been 
^.bsent?  had  anything  happened  since  that  day  when 


THE  GIRLS  AT  HOME.  8 1 

Aunt  Jane  surprised  them  in  their  pinafores?  The 
still  house,  so  still  in  the  deep  tranquillity  of  the 
country,  after  the  hum  of  their  schoolroom  life 
and  the  noises  of  a town,  seemed  to  turn  round 
with  them,  as  they  looked  out  upon  the  garden, 
upon  which  no  change  seemed  to  have  passed.  “I 
declare,^’  cried  Mab,  “there  is  exactly  the  same 
number  of  apples — and  the  same  branch  of  that 
old  plum-tree  hanging  loose  from  the  wall!’^ 

Thus  the  first  evening  passed  like  a dream.  Mr. 
St.  John  came  from  his  study  to  supper,  and  he 
talked  a little,  just  as  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
talking  long  ago,  without  any  allusion  to  the  past. 
He  told  them  a few  pieces  of  news  about  the  parish, 
and  that  he  would  like  them  to  visit  the  school. 
“It  has  been  very  well  looked  after  lately,’^  he 
said.  Perhaps  this  meant  by  his  wife — perhaps  it 
did  not;  the  girls  could  not  tell.  Then  Betsy  came 
in  for  prayers,  along  with  a small  younger  sister  of 
hers  who  had  charge  of  the  little  boys;  and  by  ten 
o’clock,  as  at  Miss  Blandy’s,  the  door  was  locked, 
and  the  peaceful  house  wrapped  in  quiet.  The 
girls  looked  out  of  their  window  upon  the  soft 
stillness  with  the  strangest  feelings.  The  garden 
paths  were  clearly  indicated  by  a feeble  veiled 
moon,  and  the  trees  which  thickened  in  clouds 
upon  the  horizon.  There  was  not  a sound  any- 
where in  the  tranquil  place  except  the  occasional 
bark  of  that  dog,  who  somewhere,  far  or  near, 
always  indicates  existence  in  a still  night  in  the 
country.  The  stillness  fell  upon  their  souls.  “He 
never  asked  what  we  were  going  to  do/’  said  Mab, 

The  Curate  in  Charge,  6 


82  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

for  they  were  silenced  too,  and  spoke  to  each 
other  only  now  and  then,  chilled  out  of  the  super- 
abundance of  their  own  vitality.  “But  he  thinks 
with  me  that  the  children  are  to  be  our  business  in 
life,”  said  Cicely,  and  then  they  went  to  bed,  tak- 
ing refuge  in  the  darkness.  For  two  girls  so  full 
of  conscious  life,  tingling  to  the  finger  points  with 
active  faculties  and  power,  it  was  a chilly  home- 
coming, yet  not  so  unusual  either.  When  the  young 
creatures  come  home,  with  their  new  lives  in  their 
hands  to  make  something  of,  for  good  or  evil,  do 
not  we  often  expect  them  to  settle  down  to  the 
level  of  the  calm  old  lives  which  are  nearly  worn 
out,  and  find  fault  with  them  if  it  is  a struggle? 
Mr.  St.  John  felt  that  it  was  quite  natural  his  girls 
should  come  home  and  keep  his  house  for  him, 
and  take  the  trouble  of  the  little  boys,  and  visit 
the  schools — so  naturally  that  when  he  had  said, 
“Now  you  are  here,  we  shall  fall  into  our  quiet 
way  again,”  it  seemed  to  him  that  everything  was 
said  that  needed  to  be  said. 

In  the  morning  the  children  were  found  less 
inaccessible,  and  made  friends  with  by  dint  of 
lumps  of  sugar  and  bits  of  toast,  of  which  Mab 
was  prodigal.  They  were  very  tiny,  delicate,  and 
colourless,  with  pale  hair  and  pale  eyes;  but  they 
were  not  wanting  in  some  of  the  natural  attrac- 
tions of  children.  Charley  was  the  backward  one, 
and  had  little  command  of  language.  Harry  spoke 
for  both;  and  I will  not  say  it  was  easy  for  these 
girls,  unaccustomed  to  small  children,  to  under- 
stand even  him.  Mr,  St.  John  patted  their  heads 


THE  GIRLS  AT  HOME. 


83 


and  gave  them  a smile  each  by  way  of  blessing; 
but  he  took  little  further  notice  of  the  children. 

believe  Annie,  the  little  maid,  is  very  kind  to 
them,”  he  said.  “I  cannot  bear  to  hear  them  cry- 
ing, my  dears;  but  now  you  are  here  all  will  go 
well.” 

“But,  papa,”  said  Cicely,  “will  it  be  right  for 
us  to  stay  at  home,  when  you  have  them  to  pro- 
vide for,  and  there  is  so  little  money?” 

“Right  for  you  to  stay?  Where  could  you  be 
so  well  as  at  home?”  said  the  curate,  perturbed. 
The  girls  looked  at  each  other,  and  this  time  it 
was  Mab  who  was  bold,  and  ventured  to  speak. 

“Papa,  it  is  not  that.  Supposing  that  we  are 
best  at  home”  (Mab  said  this  with  the  corners  of 
her  mouth  going  down,  for  it  was  not  her  own 
opinion),  “yet  there  are  other  things  to  consider. 

We  should  be  earning  something ” 

Mr.  St.  John  got  up  almost  impatiently  for  him. 
“I  have  never  been  left  to  want,”  he  said.  “I  have 
been  young,  and  now  I am  old,  but  I have  never 
seen  the  righteous  forsaken,  nor  his  seed  begging 
their  bread.  Providence  will  raise  up  friends  for 
the  children;  and  we  have  always  had  plenty. 
If  there  is  enough  for  me,  there  is  enough  for 
you.” 

And  he  went  out  of  the  room  as  nearly  angry 
as  it  was  possible  for  his  mild  nature  to  be.  Cicely 
and  Mab  once  more  looked  at  each  other  wonder- 
ing. “Papa  is  crazy,  I think,”  said  Mab,  who  was 
the  most  self-assertive;  but  Cicely  only  heaved  a 
sigh,  and  went  out  to  the  hall  to  brush  his  hat  for 

6’^ 


84  the  curate  in  charge. 

him,  as  she  remembered  her  mother  used  to  do. 
Mr.  St.  John  liked  this  kind  of  tendance.  ‘^You 
are  a good  girl,  Cicely;  you  are  just  such  another 
as  your  mother,”  he  said,  as  he  took  the  hat  from 
her;  and  Cicely  divined  that  the  late  Mrs.  St.  John 
had  not  shown  him  this  attention,  which  I think 
pleased  her  on  the  whole. 

‘‘But,  papa,  I am  afraid  Mab  was  right,”  she 
said.  “You  must  think  it  over,  and  think  what  is 
best  for  Mab.” 

“Why  should  she  be  different  from  you?”  said 
Mr.  St.  John,  feeling  in  his  breast  pocket  for  the 
familiar  prayer-book  which  lay  there.  It  was  more 
important  to  him  to  make  sure  it  was  safe,  than  to 
decide  what  to  do  with  his  child. 

“I  don’t  know  why,  but  we  are  different.  Dear 
papa,  you  must  think,  if  you  please,  what  is  best.” 

“It  is  nonsense.  Cicely;  she  must  stay  where 
she  is,  and  make  herself  happy.  A good  girl  is  al- 
ways happy  at  home,”  said  Mr.  St.  John;  “and,  of 
course,  there  is  plenty — plenty  for  all  of  us.  You 
must  not  detain  me,  my  dear,  nor  talk  about  busi- 
ness this  first  morning.  Depend  upon  it,”  said  Mr. 
St.  John,  raising  his  soft,  feeble  hand  to  give  em- 
phasis to  his  words,  “it  is  always  best  for  you  to 
be  at  home.” 

What  a pity  that  children  and  women  are  not 
always  convinced  when  the  head  of  the  house  thus 
lays  down  the  law!  Cicely  went  back  into  the 
dining-room  where  they  had  breakfasted,  shaking 
her  head,  without  being  aware  of  the  gesture.  “Why 
should  I depend  upon  it?”  she  said.  “Depend 


THE  GIRLS  AT  HOME. 


85 


upon  it!  I may  be  quite  willing  to  do  it,  for  it  is 
my  duty;  but  why  should  I depend  upon  it  as  being 
the  best?” 

^‘What  are  you  saying,  Cicely?” 

“Nothing,  dear;  only  papa  is  rather  odd.  Does 
he  think  that  two  hundred  a year  is  a great  for- 
tune? or  that  two  of  us,  and  two  of  them,  and  two 
maids  (though  they  are  little  ones),  and  himself, 
can  get  on  upon  two  hundred  a year?” 

“I  must  paint,”  said  Mab;  “I  must  paint!  Til 
tell  you  what  I shall  do.  You  are  a great  deal 
more  like  a Madonna  than  most  of  the  women  who 
have  sat  for  her.  I will  paint  a Holy  Family  from 

you  and  them They  are  funny  little  pale 

things,  but  we  could  light  them  up  with  a little 
colour;  and  they  are  real  babies,  you  know,”  Mab 
said,  looking  at  them  seriously,  with  her  head  on 
one  side,  as  becomes  a painter.  She  had  posed 
the  two  children  on  the  floor:  the  one  seated  firmly 
with  his  little  legs  stretched  out,  the  other  leaning 
against  him;  while  she  walked  up  and  down,  with 
a pencil  in  her  hand,  studying  them.  “Stay  still  a 
moment  longer,  and  I will  give  you  a lump  of 
sugar,”  she  said. 

“Harry  like  sugar,”  said  the  small  spokesman, 
looking  up  at  her.  Charley  said  nothing.  He  had 
his  thumb,  and  half  the  little  hand  belonging  to  it, 
in  his  mouth,  and  sucked  it  with  much  philosophy. 
“Or  perhaps  I might  make  you  a peasant  woman,” 
said  Mab,  “with  one  of  them  on  your  back.  They 
are  nature,  Ciss.  You  know  how  Mr.  Lake  used 


86 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


to  go  on,  saying  nature  was  what  I wanted.  Well, 
here  it  is.” 

“I  think  you  are  as  mad  as  papa,”  said  Cicely, 
impatient;  *^but  I must  order  the  dinner  and  look 
after  the  things.  That’s  nature  for  me.  Oh,  dear 
— oh,  dear!  We  shall  not  long  be  able  to  have 
any  dinner,  if  we  go  on  with  such  a lot  of  servants. 
Two  girls,  two  boys,  two  maids,  and  two  hundred 
a year!  You  might  as  well  try  to  fly,”  said  Cicely, 
shaking  her  pretty  head. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

News. 

Perhaps  it  had  been  premature  of  the  girls  to 
speak  to  their  father  of  their  future,  and  what  they 
were  to  do,  on  the  very  first  morning  after  their 
return;  but  youth  is  naturally  impatient,  and  the 
excitement  of  one  crisis  seems  to  stimulate  the 
activity  of  all  kinds  of  plans  and  speculations  in 
the  youthful  brain;  and  then  perhaps  the  chill  of  the 
house,  the  rural  calm  of  the  place,  had  frightened 
them.  Cicely,  indeed,  knew  it  was  her  duty  and 
her  business  to  stay  here,  whatever  happened;  but 
how  could  Mab  bear  it,  she  said  to  herself — Mab, 
who  required  change  and  novelty,  whose  mind  was 
full  of  such  hopes  of  seeing  and  of  doing?  When 
their  father  had  gone  out,  however,  they  threw  aside 
their  grave  thoughts  for  the  moment,  and  dawdled 
the  morning  away,  roaming  about  the  garden,  out 
and  in  a hundred  times,  as  it  is  so  pleasant  to  do 


NEWS. 


87 


on  a summer  day  in  the  country,  especially  to 
those  who  find  in  the  country  the  charm  of  novelty. 
They  got  the  children’s  hats,  and  took  them  out  to 
play  on  the  sunny  grass,  and  run  small  races  along 
the  paths. 

‘Tlease,  miss,  not  to  let  them  run  too  much,” 
said  little  Annie,  Betsy’s  sister,  who  was  the  nurse, 
though  she  was  but  fifteen.  “Please,  miss,  not  to 
let  ’em  roll  on  the  grass.” 

“Why,  the  grass  is  as  dry  as  the  carpet;  and 
what  are  their  little  legs  good  for  but  to  run  with?” 
said  Cicely. 

Whereupon  little  Annie  made  up  a solemn 
countenance,  and  said,  “Please,  miss,  I promised 
missis ” 

Mab  rushed  off  with  the  children  before  the 
sentence  was  completed.  “That’s  why  they  are  so 
pale,”  cried  the  impetuous  girl;  “poor  little  white- 
faced things!  But  we  never  promised  missis.  Let 
us  take  them  into  our  own  hands.” 

“You  are  a good  girl  to  remember  what  your 
mistress  said,”  said  Cicely  with  dignity,  walking  out 
after  her  sister  in  very  stately  fashion.  And  she 
reproved  Mab  for  her  rashness,  and  led  the  little 
boys  about,  promenading  the  walks.  “We  must  get 
rid  of  these  two  maids,”  she  said,  “or  we  shall 
never  be  allowed  to  have  anything  our  own  way.” 

“But  you  said  they  were  good  girls  for  remem- 
bering,” said  Mab,  surprised. 

“So  they  were;  but  that  is  not  to  say  I am 
going  to  put  up  with  it,”  said  Cicely,  drawing  her- 
self to  her  full  height,  and  looking  Miss  St.  John, 


88 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


as  Mab  asserted  she  was  very  capable  of  doing 
when  she  pleased. 

“You  are  very  funny,  Cicely,’’  said  the  younger 
sister;  “you  praise  the  maids,  and  yet  you  want  to, 
get  rid  of  them;  and  you  think  what  ‘missis’  made 
them  promise  is  nonsense,  yet  there  you  go  walk- 
ing about  with  these  two  mites  as  if  you  had  pro- 
mised missis  yourself.” 

“Hush!”  said  Cicely,  and  then  the  tears  came 
into  her  eyes.  “She  is  dead!”  said  this  incon- 
sistent young  woman,  with  a low  voice  full  of  re- 
morse. “It  would  be  hard  if  one  did  not  give  in 
to  her  at  first  about  her  own  little  boys.” 

After  this  dawdling  in  the  morning,  they  made 
up  their  minds  to  work  in  the  afternoon.  Much  as 
they  loved  the  sunshine,  they  were  obliged  to  draw 
down  the  blinds  with  their  own  hands,  to  the  de- 
light of  Betty,  to  whom  Cicely  was  obliged  to  ex- 
plain that  this  was  not  to  save  the  carpet.  It  is 
difficult  to  know  what  to  do  in  such  circumstances, 
especially  when  there  is  nothing  particular  to  be 
done.  It  was  too  hot  to  go  out;  and  as  for  be- 
ginning needlework  in  cold  blood  the  first  day  you 
are  in  a new  place,  or  have  come  back  to  an  old 
one,  few  girls  of  eighteen  and  nineteen  are  so 
virtuous  as  that.  One  thing  afforded  them  a little 
amusement,  and  that  was  to  pull  things  about,  and 
alter  their  arrangement,  and  shape  the  room  to 
their  own  mind.  Cicely  took  down  a worked 
banner-screen  which  hung  from  the  mantelpiece, 
and  which  offended  her  fastidious  taste;  or  rather, 
she  began  to  unscrew  it,  removing  first  the 


NEWS. 


89 


crackling  semi-transparent  veil  that  covered  it. 
‘‘Why  did  she  cover  them  up  so?”  cried  Cicely, 
impatiently. 

“To  keep  them  clean,  of  course,”  said  Mab. 

“But  why  should  they  be  kept  clean?  We  are 
obliged  to  fade  and  lose  our  beauty.  It  is  un- 
natural to  be  spick  and  span,  always  clean  and 
young,  and  new.  Come  down,  you  gaudy  thing!” 
she  cried.  Then  with  her  hand  still  grasping  it,  a 
compunction  seized  her.  “After  all,  why  shouldn’t 
she  leave  something  behind  her — something  to  re- 
member her  by?  She  had  as  much  right  here  as 
we  have,  after  all.  She  ought  to  leave  some  trace 
of  her  existence  here.” 

“She  has  left  her  children — trace  enough  of  her 
existence!”  cried  Mab. 

Cicely  was  struck  by  this  argument.  She 
hesitated  a minute,  with  her  hand  on  the  screen, 
then  hastily  detached  it,  and  threw  it  down.  Then 
two  offensive  cushions  met  her  eye,  which  she  put 
in  the  same  heap.  “The  little  boys  might  like  to 
have  them  when  they  grow  up,”  she  added,  half 
apologetically,  to  herself. 

And  with  these  changes  something  of  the  old 
familiar  look  began  to  come  into  the  faded  room. 
Mab  had  brought  out  her  drawing  things,  but  the 
blinds  were  fluttering  over  the  open  windows,  shut- 
ting out  even  the  garden;  and  there  was  nothing  to 
draw.  And  it  was  afternoon,  which  is  not  a time 
to  begin  work.  She  fixed  her  eyes  upon  a large 
chiffonier,  with  glass  doors,  which  held  the  place  of 


90 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


honour  in  the  room.  It  was  mahogany,  like  every- 
thing else  in  the  house. 

wonder  what  sort  of  a man  Mr.  Chester  is?^^ 
she  said;  ‘^or  what  he  meant  by  buying  all  that 
hideous  furniture — a man  who  lives  in  Italy,  and  is 
an  antiquary,  and  knows  about  pictures.  If  it  was 
not  for  the  glass  doors,  how  like  a hearse  that 
chiffonier  would  be.  I mean  a catafalque.  What 
is  a catafalque.  Cicely?  A thing  that  is  put  up 
in  churches  when  people  are  dead?  I hope  Mr. 
Chester  when  he  dies  will  have  just  such  a tomb.’^ 

‘‘It  is  not  so  bad  as  the  big  bookcase  in  the 
study,”  said  Cicely;  “certainly  things  are  better 
now-a-days.  If  I had  plenty  of  money,  how  I 
should  like  to  furnish  this  room  all  over  again, 
with  bright  young  things,  not  too  huge;  little  sofas 
that  would  move  anywhere  when  you  touched 
them,  and  soft  chairs.  They  should  be  covered  in 
amber ” 

“No — blue!”  cried  Mab. 

“Soft  amber — amber  with  a bloom  of  white  in 
it ” 

“In  this  sunny  room,”  cried  Mab.  “What  are 
you  thinking  of?  No;  it  must  be  a cool  colour — a 
sort  of  moon-lighty  blue — pale,  pale;  or  tender 
fairy  green.” 

“What  is  fairy  green?  Amber  is  my  colour — 
it  would  be  lovely;  of  course  I don’t  mean  to  say 
it  wouldn’t  fade.  But  then  if  one  were  rich  the 
pleasure  would  be  to  let  it  fade,  and  then  have  all 
the  fun  over  again,  and  choose  another,”  said  Ci- 
cely, with  a sigh  over  this  impossible  delight. 


NEWS. 


91 


‘‘Things  sometimes  improve  by  fading,”  said  the 
artist.  “I  like  the  faded  tints — they  harmonize. 
Hush,  Cicely! — oh,  stop  your  tidying — there  is  some 
one  at  the  door.” 

“It  cannot  be  any  one  coming  to  call  so  soon?” 
said  Cicely,  startled. 

“But  it  is — listen!  I can  hear  Betsy  saying, 
‘This  way,  ma’am;  this  way.’”  And  Mab  closed 
her  sketch-book,  and  sat  very  upright  and  ex- 
pectant on  her  chair;  while  Cicely,  throwing  (I  am 
ashamed  to  say)  her  spoils  under  a sofa,  took  up 
her  needlework  by  the  wrong  end,  and,  putting  on 
a portentous  face  of  gravity  and  absorbed  occupa- 
tion, waited  for  the  expected  visitor. 

A moment  after  the  door  was  flung  open,  but 
not  by  Betsy;  and  Miss  May  dew,  flushed  with  her 
walk  from  the  station,  as  when  they  had  first  seen 
her,  with  the  same  shawl  on,  and  I almost  think  the 
same  bonnet  (but  that  was  impossible),  stood  be- 
fore them,  her  large  white  handkerchief  in  her 
hand.  She  was  too  hot  to  say  anything,  but  dropped 
down  on  the  first  chair  she  came  to,  leaving  the 
door  open,  which  made  a draught,  and  blew  about 
her  ribbons  violently.  “I  know  it  is  as  much  as 
my  life  is  worth,”  said  Miss  Maydew;  “but,  oh,  how 
delicious  it  is  to  be  in  a draught!” 

“Aunt  Jane!”  the  girls  cried,  and  rushed  at  her 
with  unfeigned  relief.  They  were  more  familiar 
with  her  now  than  they  had  been  four  years  ago. 
They  took  off  her  great  shawl  for  her,  and  loosed 
her  bonnet  strings.  “Papa  told  us  you  were  com- 


Q2 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


ing/^  they  cried;  “but  we  did  not  hope  for  you  so 
soon.  How  kind  of  you  to  come  to-day.” 

“Oh,  my  dears,”  said  Aunt  Jane,  “I  did  not 
mean  to  come  to-day;  I came  to  see  how  you  were 
taking  it;  and  what  your  papa  means  to  do.  As 
soon  as  I saw  it  in  the  paper  I thought,  oh  my 
poor,  poor  children,  and  that  helpless  old  man! 
What  are  they  to  do?” 

“Do  you  mean  about  Mrs.  St.  John?”  said  Ci- 
cely, growing  grave.  “Papa  is  very  composed  and 
kind,  and  indeed  I can  do  all  he  wants.  Aunt 
Jane ” 

“About  Mrs.  St.  John?  Poor  woman,  I have 
nothing  to  say  against  her — but  she  is  taken  away 
from  the  evil  to  come,”  said  Miss  Maydew.  “No, 
no,  it  was  not  about  Mrs.  St.  John  I was  thinking, 
it  was  about  something  much  more  serious.  Not 
that  anything  could  be  more  serious  than  a death; 
but  in  a worldly  point  of  view!” 

“What  is  it?”  they  both  said  in  a breath.  The 
idea  of  news  was  exciting  to  them,  even  though,  as 
was  evident  from  their  visitor’s  agitation,  it  was 
disagreeable  news  they  were  about  to  hear.  Miss 
Maydew  drew  with  much  excitement  from  her 
pocket  a copy  of  the  Times,  very  tightly  folded  to- 
gether to  enable  it  to  enter  there,  and  opened  it 
with  trembling  hands. 

“There  it  is!  Oh,  my  poor,  poor  children! 
imagine  my  feelings — it  was  the  very  first  thing  I 
saw  when  I took  up  my  paper  this  morning,”  she 
said. 

The  girls  did  not  immediately  take  in  the  full 


NEWS. 


93 


meaning  of  the  intimation  which  they  read  with 
two  startled  faces  close  together  over  the  old 
lady’s  shoulder.  “At  Castellamare,  on  the  15th 
July,  the  Rev.  Edward  Chester,  Rector  of  Brent- 
burn,  Berks.” 

“But  we  don’t  know  him,”  said  Mab,  bewil- 
dered. 

Cicely,  I think,  had  a remark  of  the  same  kind 
on  her  lips;  but  she  stopped  suddenly  and  clasped 
her  hands  together  and  gave  a low  cry. 

“Ah,  you  understand.  Cicely!”  said  Miss  May- 
dew,  wiping  her  forehead  with  her  handkerchief; 
“now  let  us  consult  what  is  to  be  done.  What  is 
the  date?  I was  so  agitated  I never  thought  of 
the  date!  The  15th.  Oh,  my  dear,  here  is  a fort- 
night lost!” 

“But  what  can  be  done?”  said  Cicely,  turning 
a pathetic  glance  upon  the  old  room  which  had 
seemed  so  melancholy  to  her  yesterday,  and  the 
tons  of  mahogany  which  she  had  just  been  criticis- 
ing. How  kind,  and  friendly,  and  familiar  they  had 
become  all  at  once;  old,  dear  friends,  who  be- 
longed to  her  no  more. 

“Mr.  Chester,  the  rector!”  said  Mab,  with  sud- 
den apprehension.  “Do  you  mean  that  something 
will  happen  to  papa?” 

“There  is  this  to  be  done,”  said  the  old  lady, 
^^your  poor  good  father  has  been  here  for  twenty 
years;  the  people  ought  to  be  fond  of  him — I do 
not  know  whether  they  are,  for  a parish  is  an  in- 
comprehensible thing,  as  your  poor  dear  grand- 
father always  used  to  say — but  they  ought  to  be; 


94 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


I am  sure  he  has  trudged  about  enough,  and  never 
spared  himself,  though  I never  thought  him  a good 
preacher,  so  far  as  that  goes.  But  he  ought  to 
have  a great  many  friends  after  living  here  for 
twenty  years.” 

“But,  Aunt  Jane,  tell  us,  tell  us — what  good 
will  that  do?” 

“It  might  do  a great  deal  if  they  would  exert 
themselves.  They  might  get  up  a petition,  for  in- 
stance— at  once — to  the  Lord  Chancellor;  they 
might  employ  all  their  influence.  It  is  not  a rich 
parish,  nor  a large  parish,  but  there  are  always 
gentry  in  it.  Oh,  a great  deal  might  be  done  if 
only  people  would  exert  themselves!  It  is  dreadful 
to  think  that  a fortnight  has  been  lost.” 

Cicely,  who  was  not  much  consoled  by  this 
hope,  sat  down  with  a very  pale  countenance  and 
a sudden  constriction  at  her  heart.  She  was  al- 
most too  much  bewildered  to  realize  all  that  it 
meant;  enough  lay  on  the  surface  to  fill  her  soul 
with  dismay.  Mab,  who  had  less  perception  of 
the  urgent  character  of  the  calamity,  was  more 
animated. 

“I  thought  you  meant  we  could  do  something,” 
she  said.  “Oh,  Aunt  Jane,  could  not  we  go  to  the 
Chancellor,  if  that  is  the  man.  The  parish?  I don’t 
see  why  they  should  take  the  trouble.  It  will  not 
hurt  them.  They  will  have  a young,  well-off  man 
instead  of  an  old,  poor  man.  Couldn’t  we  go  to 
the  Lord  Chancellor,  Aunt  Jane?” 

Miss  Maydew’s  eyes  lighted  up  for  a moment. 
She  seemed  to  see  herself  approaching  that  un- 


NEWS. 


95 


known  potentate  as  lovely  ladies  went  to  kings  in 
the  days  of  romance,  with  a child  in  each  hand. 
She  felt  how  eloquent  she  could  be,  how  convinc- 
ing. She  felt  herself  capable  of  going  down  on 
her  knees  and  asking  him  whether  the  father  of 
those  two  sweet  girls  was  to  starve  in  his  old  age? 
All  this  appeared  before  her  like  a dream.  But 
alas!  common  sense  soon  resumed  its  sway;  she 
shook  her  head.  don^t  know  if  that  would  do 
any  good,’^  she  said. 

‘‘And  we  could  not  get  up  a petition  from  the 
parish,”  said  Cicely;  “whatever  the  people  may  do 
we  cannot  stir  in  it.  Oh,  Aunt  Jane,  how  foolish, 
how  wrong  of  us  never  to  think  of  this!  I have 
thought  that  papa  was  old  and  that  we  should  have 
to  maintain  ourselves  and  the  two  babies  if — any- 
thing happened;  but  I never  remembered  that  it 
all  hung  upon  some  one  else’s  life.  Oh,  it  does 
seem  hard!”  cried  the  girl,  clasping  her  hands. 
“Papa  has  done  all  the  work  since  ever  I was  born, 
but  yet  he  has  only  been  here  on  sufferance,  ready 
to  be  turned  out  at  a moment's  notice.  Oh,  it  is 
wrong,  it  is  wrong!” 

“Not  exactly  at  a moment's  notice,”  said  Miss 
Maydew;  “there  is  six  weeks  or  three  months,  or 
something,  I forget  how  long.” 

And  then  there  was  a painful  pause.  Mab  cried 
a little,  having  her  feelings  most  upon  the  surface, 
but  Cicely  sat  quite  silent  and  pale  with  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  white  blinds  which  flapped  against 
the  open  windows.  All  at  once  she  got  up  and 
drew  one  of  them  up  with  a rapid  impatient  hand. 


9 6 THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

‘‘I  want  air,  I want  light,”  she  said  in  a stifled  voice, 
and  put  herself  full  in  the  intrusive  sunshine,  which 
made  Miss  Maydew  blink  her  old  eyes. 

“You  will  give  yourself  a headache,  my  dear, 
and  that  will  not  mend  matters,”  she  said. 

Cicely’s  heart  was  very  heavy.  She  drew  down 
the  blind  again  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room 
in  her  agitation.  “Five,  of  us  to  provide  for  now 
— and  that  is  not  the  worst;  what  is  papa  to  do? 
How  can  he  live  with  everything  taken  from  him? 
Oh,  go  to  the  Chancellor,  or  any  one,  if  it  will  do 
any  good!  It  is  terrible  for  papa.” 

Is  was  while  they  were  still  in  this  agitated  state 
that  Betsy  threw  open  the  door  again,  and  Mrs. 
Ascott,  of  the  Heath,  one  of  the  greatest  ladies  in 
the  parish,  came  in.  She  was  not  heated,  like  poor 
old  Miss  Maydew,  with  walking,  but  fresh  and  well 
dressed  from  her  carriage,  and  tranquil  as  prospe- 
rity and  comfort  could  make  her.  The  girls  made 
that  sudden  effort,  which  women  so  often  have  to 
make,  to  receive  her  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 
as  if  their  minds  were  as  easy  and  their  circum- 
stances as  agreeable  as  her  own.  She  inquired 
about  their  journey,  about  their  school,  about  how 
they  found  their  papa  looking,  about  the  “sad  trials” 
he  had  gone  through,  all  in  a sweet  even  tone,  with 
smiles  or  serious  looks,  as  became  her  words,  and 
hoped  that  now  they  had  come  back  she  should 
see  them  often  at  the  Heath.  “You  are  the  musi- 
cal one.  Cicely,”  she  said;  “I  know  Mab  draws.  It 
is  always  nice  when  sisters  have  each  their  distinc- 
tion, that  people  can’t  mistake.  My  husband  always 


NEWS. 


97 


says  girls  are  so  like  each  other.  What  is  your 
voice?  contralto?  oh,  a good  second  is  such  a 
want  here.  We  are  all  more  or  less  musical,  you 
know.^^ 

“My  voice  is  not  much  one  way  or  the  other,’^ 
said  Cicely.  “Mab  sings  better  than  I do,  though 
she  is  the  one  who  draws.^^ 

“But  I fear,”  said  Miss  May  dew,  clearing  her 
throat  and  interfering,  “unless  something  is  done 
they  will  not  be  here  long  to  be  of  use  to  any  one. 

We  have  just  had  news ” 

“Ah,  about  poor  Mr.  Chester,”  said  Mrs.  Ascott, 
with  the  slightest  of  glances  at  the  stranger;  “I  saw 
it  in  the  papers.  Will  that  affect  your  papa?” 

“Unless” — Miss  Maydew  put  herself  forward 
squarely  and  steadily — “something  is  done.” 

Mrs.  Ascott  looked  at  the  old  lady  for  the  first 
time.  She  had  thought  her  an  old  nurse — for  the 
good  woman  was  not  of  a patrician  appearance, 
like  the  girls,  who  were  St.  Johns.  “Unless — some- 
thing is  done?  I am  sure  we  will  all  do  anything 
that  is  possible.  What  can  be  done?” 

“Hush!  my  dear,  hush!  She  does  not  know  I 
belong  to  you,”  whispered  Miss  Maydew.  “I  think 
a great  deal  might  be  done.  If  Mr.  St.  John's 
friends  were  to  get  up  a petition  to  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor at  once — stating  how  long  he  had  been  here, 
and  how  much  beloved  he  was,  and  the  whole  state 
of  the  case.  I don't  personally  know  his  lordship,” 
said  the  old  lady;  “but  he  can't  be  a bad  man  or 
he  never  would  have  risen  to  that  position.  I can't 
believe  but  what  if  the  case  were  put  fully  before 
Th^  Curate  in  Charge.  7 


98 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


him,  he  would  give  Mr.  St.  John  the  living.  It 
seems  so  much  the  most  natural  thing  to  do.” 

‘‘Dear  me,  so  it  does!”  said  Mrs.  Ascott.  “How 
clever  of  you  to  have  thought  of  it.  I will  speak 
to  my  husband,  and  see  what  he  says.” 

“And  if  there  is  any  one  else  whom  you  can 
influence — to  do  good  it  should  be  general — from 
the  whole  parish,”  said  ,Miss  Maydew — “from  all 
classes;  and  it  ought  to  be  done  at  once.” 

“To  be  sure,”  said  Mrs.  Ascott.  “I  assure  you 
I will  speak  to  my  husband.”  She  got  up  to  take 
her  leave,  a little  frightened  by  the  vehemence  of 
the  stranger,  and  rather  elated  at  the  same  time  by 
the  sense  of  having  a mission.  Miss  Maydew  went 
with  her  to  the  very  door. 

“At  once,”  she  said,  “at  once!  It  is  a fort- 
night already  since  the  rector  died.  If  the  parish 
means  to  do  anything,  you  should  not  lose  a 
day.” 

“No:  I see,  I see!  I will  go  at  once  and  speak 
to  my  husband,”  cried  the  visitor,  escaping  hastily. 
Miss  Maydew  returned  to  her  seat  breathing  a sigh 
of  satisfaction.  “There,  girls!  I have  set  it  agoing 
at  least.  I have  started  it.  That  was  a nice  wo- 
man— if  she  exerts  herself,  I don’t  doubt  that  it 
will  be  all  right.  What  a blessing  she  came  while 
I was  here.” 

“I  hope  it  is  all  right,”  said  Cicely  doubtfully; 

“but  she  is  not  very not  very,  very  sensible,  you 

know.  But  she  is  always  kind.  I hope  she  will 
not  do  anything  foolish.  Is  that  papa  she  is  talk- 
ing to?”  cried  the  girl  alarmed,  for  there  were 


NEWS. 


99 


sounds  of  commotion  in  the  hall.  A silence  fell 
upon  even  the  chief  conspirator,  when  she  felt  that 
Mr.  St.  John  was  near — the  possibility  that  her 
tactics  might  not  be  quite  satisfactory  alarmed  her. 
She  withdrew  into  a corner,  instinctively  getting  the 
girls  and  a considerable  mass  of  furniture  between 
herself  and  any  one  coming  in  at  the  door. 

do  not  know  what  Mrs.  Ascott  is  talking  of,’^ 
said  the  curate.  “Is  tea  ready,  my  dear,  for  I have 
a great  deal  to  do?  What  have  you  been  putting 
into  that  good  woman’s  head?  She  is  talking  of  a 
petition,  and  of  the  Lord  Chancellor,  and  of  bad 
news.  I hope  you  are  not  a politician.  Cicely.  What 
is  it  all  about?” 

“Here  is  Aunt  Jane,  papa,”  said  Cicely,  who 
was  not  more  comfortable  than  Miss  Maydew.  And 
the  old  lady  had  to  get  up  and  stretch  out  her 
hand  to  Mr.  St.  John  over  the  sofa,  which  was  her 
bulwark  in  chief. 

“But  I wonder  what  she  meant  about  bad  news,” 
he  went  on;  “she  seemed  to  think  it  affected  us. 
My  dears,  have  you  heard  anything?” 

“Oh,  papa,  very  bad  news,”  said  Cicely  with 
tears  in  her  eyes.  “It  is  in  the  paper.  Mrs.  Ascott 
has  seen  it,  and  that  is  what  we  were  talking  about. 
Oh,  dear  papa,  don’t  be  cast  down.  Perhaps  it 
may  not  be  so  bad  as  we  think.  Something  may 
be  done;  or  at  the  very  worst  we  are  both  able  and 
willing  to  work — Mab  and  I.” 

“I  don’t  know  what  you  mean,”  said  Mr.  St. 
John,  and  he  read  the  announcement  without  much 
change  of  countenance.  “Dear  me,  so  he  is  gone 

7* 


lOO 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


at  last!’^  he  said.  “I  have  long  expected  this.  His 
health  has  been  getting  worse  and  worse  for  years. 
Poor  Chester!  has  he  really  gone  at  last?  I re- 
member him  at  college.  He  was  a year  younger 
than  I,  but  always  sickly.  Poor  fellow!  and  he  was 
a great  deal  better  off  than  I am,  but  never  got 
the  good  of  it.  What  a lesson  it  is,  my  dears !^' 

“But,  oh,  papa,”  cried  Mab,  who  was  the  most 
impatient,  “it  is  a great  deal  more  than  a lesson. 
Think  what  consequences  it  will  bring  to  you — and 
us — and  everybody.” 

He  looked  at  her  with  a half  smile.  “Little 
Mab,”  he  said,  “teaching  her  elders.  Harry  will 
begin  soon.  Yes,  to  be  sure;  we  have  got  fond 
of  this  place;  it  seems  hard  that  we  should  have 
to  go.” 

“But,  papa,  where  shall  we  go?  What  shall  we 
do?  What  is  to  become  of  us?”  said  Cicely. 

Mr.  St.  John  shook  his  head.  “If  you  will  con- 
sider that  I have  only  just  seen  it  this  moment,”  he 
said,  “you  will  see  that  I cannot  be  expected  all  at 

once Was  this  what  Mrs.  Ascott  was  talking  of? 

And  what  did  she  mean  by  petitions,  and  the  Lord 
Chancellor?  I hope  you  have  not  been  putting 
anything  into  her  head?” 

There  was  a pause — the  girls  looked  at  each  other 
and  blushed  as  if  they  were  the  culprits;  then  Miss 
May  dew  came  boldly  to  the  front.  “It  was  not  the 
fault  of  the  girls,  Mr.  St.  John;  on  the  contrary, 
they  were  against  it.  But  I thought  there  was  no 
harm  in  saying  that  a petition  from  the  parish — to 
the  Lord  Chancellor  — a well  signed  petition,  as 


NEWS. 


lOl 

there  must  be  so  many  people  here  who  are  fond 
of  you — and  that  no  doubt  he  would  give  you  the 
living  if  he  understood  the  circumstances.” 

“la  beggar  for  a living!”  said  Mr.  St.  John. 
“I  who  have  never  asked  for  anything  in  my  life!” 
A deep  flush  came  upon  his  delicate  pale  face.  He 
had  borne  a great  many  more  serious  blows  with- 
out wincing.  Death  had  visited  him,  and  care  dwelt 
in  his  house — and  he  had  borne  these  visitations 
placidly;  but  there  was  one  flaw  in  his  armour,  and 
this  unlooked-for  assault  found  it  out.  A flame  of 
injured  pride  blazed  up  in  him,  swift  as  fire  and  as 
glowing.  “I  thought  I should  have  died  without 
this,”  he  said  with  a groan,  half  fierce,  half  bitter. 
“What  was  it  to  you?  I never  asked  you  for  any- 
thing! Oh,  this  is  hard — this  is  very  hard  to 
bear.” 

In  the  memory  of  man  it  had  never  been  known 
that  Mr.  St.  John  thus  complained  before.  The  girls 
had  never  heard  his  voice  raised  or  seen  the  flush 
of  anger  on  his  face:  and  they  were  overawed  by 
it.  This  kind  of  sentiment  too  has  always  a certain 
fictitious  grandeur  to  the  inexperienced.  Never  to 
ask  for  anything;  to  wait — patient  merit  scorning 
all  conflict  with  the  unworthy — till  such  time  as  its 
greatness  should  be  acknowledged.  This  sounds 
very  sublime  in  most  cases  to  the  youthful  soul. 

“Well,  Mr.  St.  John,”  said  Miss  Maydew,  “you 
may  say  I have  no  right  to  interfere;  but  if  you 
had  stooped  to  ask  for  something  it  might  have 
been  a great  deal  better  for  your  family.  Besides, 
you  have  not  asked  for  anything  now.  I am  not 


102 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


responsible  for  my  actions  to  any  one,  and  I hope 
I may  do  either  for  you  or  anybody  else  whatever 
I please  in  the  way  of  service.  If  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor does  give  you  the  living ” 

Mr.  St.  John  smiled.  ‘‘I  need  not  make  myself 
angry,’'  he  said,  “for  it  is  all  sheer  ignorance.  The 
living  is  a college  living.  I don’t  know  what  your 
ideas  are  on  the  subject,  but  the  Lord  Chancellor 
has  as  much  to  do  with  it  as  you  have.  Cicely,  let 
us  have  tea.” 

Miss  Maydew  shrivelled  up  upon  her  chair.  She 
sat  very  quiet,  and  did  not  say  a word  after  this 
revelation.  What  she  had  done  would  have  troubled 
her  mind  little;  but  that  she  had  done  nothing  after 
risking  so  much  was  hard  to  bear.  After  this  little 
ebullition,  however,  the  curate  fell  back  into  his 
usual  calm.  He  spoke  to  them  in  his  ordinary  way. 
His  voice  resumed  its  tranquil  tone.  He  took  his 
tea,  which  was  a substantial  meal,  doing  justice  to 
the  bread  and  butter,  and  on  the  whole  showed 
signs  of  being  more  concerned  for  Mr.  Chester  than 
he  was  for  himself. 

“I  remember  him  at  college — we  were  of  the 
same  college,”  he  said;  “but  he  always  the  richest, 
much  the  best  off.  How  little  that  has  to  say  to  a 
man’s  happiness!  Poor  Chester  was  never  happy; 
he  might  have  been  very  well  here.  How  much  I 
have  had  to  be  thankful  for  here!  but  it  was  not 
his  disposition.  He  was  good-looking  too  when  he 
was  young,  and  did  very  well  in  everything.  Any 
one  would  have  said  he  had  a far  better  chance  for 
a happy  life  than  I had.” 


NEWS. 


103 


The  gentle  old  man  grew  quite  loquacious  in 
this  contrast,  though  he  was  in  general  the  most 
humble-minded  of  men;  and  the  two  girls  sat  and 
listened,  giving  wondering  glances  at  each  other, 
and  blushing  red  with  that  shame  of  affection  which 
lively  girls  perhaps  are  particularly  disposed  to  feel 
when  their  parents  maunder.  This  sort  of  domestic 
criticism,  even  though  unexpressed,  was  hard  upon 
Mr.  St.  John,  as  upon  all  such  feeble  good  men. 
His  last  wife  had  adored  him  at  all  times,  as  much 
when  he  was  foolish  as  when  he  was  wise.  She 
would  have  given  him  the  fullest  adhesion  of  her 
soul  now,  and  echoed  every  word  he  said;  but  the 
girls  did  not.  They  would  have  preferred  to  silence 
him,  and  were  ashamed  of  his  gentle  self-compla- 
cency. And  yet  it  was  quite  true  that  he  felt  him- 
self a happier  man  than  Mr.  Chester,  and  higher  in 
the  scale  of  merit  though  not  of  fortune;  and  the 
calm  with  which  he  took  this  event,  which  was 
neither  more  nor  less  than  ruin  to  him,  was  fine  in 
its  way. 

‘‘But  what  are  we  to  do,  papa?’’  Cicely  ventured 
to  ask  him,  looking  up  into  his  face  with  big  anxious 
eyes,  as  he  took  his  last  cup  of  tea. 

“My  dear,  we  must  wait  and  see,”  he  said. 
“There  is  no  very  immediate  hurry.  Let  us  see 
first  who  is  appointed,  and  what  the  new  rector 
intends  to  do.” 

“But,  Mr.  St.  John,  you  are  a very  learned  man 
— and  if  it  is  a college  living” — suggested  Miss 
Maydew. 

“It  is  my  own  college,  too,”  he  said  reflectively; 


104 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


“and  I suppose  I am  now  one  of  the  oldest  mem- 
bers of  it.  It  would  not  be  amiss  if  they  let  me 
stay  here  the  rest  of  my  days.  But  I never  was 
distinguished.  I never  was  a Fellow,  or  anything. 
I never  could  push  myself  forward.  No — we  must 
just  wait  and  see  what  is  going  to  happen.  A few 
days  or  a few  weeks  will  make  little  difference. 
Compose  yourselves,  my  dears,^^  said  Mr.  St.  John. 
“I  am  not  very  anxious  after  all.’^ 

“I  wonder  if  he  would  be  anxious  if  you  were 
all  starving,^’  cried  Miss  Maydew,  as  the  girls  walked 
with  her  to  the  station  in  the  evening.  “ Oh,  Cicely, 
I know  I oughtn’t  to  say  anything  to  you  about 
your  papa.  But  if  he  has  not  been  anxious,  others 
have  been  anxious  for  him.  Your  poor  mother! 
how  she  slaved  to  keep  everything  as  it  ought  to 
be;  and  even  poor  Miss  Brown.  It  did  not  cost 
him  much  to  marry  her — but  it  cost  her  her  life.” 
“Aunt  Jane!”  cried  both  the  girls  indignant. 
“Well,  my  dears!  She  might  have  been  living 
now,  a respectable  single  woman,  doing  her  duty, 
as  she  was  capable  of  doing;  instead  of  which  what 
must  she  do  but  bring  a couple  of  whitefaced  babies 
into  the  world  that  nobody  wanted,  and  die  of  it. 
Yes,  she  did  die  of  it.  You  don’t  understand  these 
things — you  are  only  children.  And  all  because 
he  was  what  you  call  kind-hearted,  and  could  not 
bear  to  see  her  cry,  forsooth.  As  if  the  best  of  us 
were  not  obliged  both  to  cry  ourselves  and  to  see 
others  cry  often  enough!  but  they  never  thought 
what  they  were  doing;  and  the  ones  to  suffer  will 
be  you,” 


THE  NEW  RECTOR.  IO5 

^^Aunt  Jane,  you  ought  not  to  speak  so  of 
papa.’^ 

“I  know  I shouldn’t,  my  dear — and  I humbly 
beg  your  pardons,”  said  Aunt  Jane,  drying  her 
eyes. 

“And  we  ought  not  to  have  left  him  unprotected,” 
said  Cicely,  with  a sigh. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  New  Rector. 

The  news  which  so  much  disturbed  the  in- 
habitants of  the  rectory  at  Brentburn  was  already 
old  news  in  Oxford,  where  indeed  it  was  known 
and  decided  who  Mr.  Chester’s  successor  was  to  be. 
The  august  body  in  whose  hands  the  appointment 
lay  was  absolutely  unconscious  of  the  existence  of 
Mr.  St.  John.  Several  members  of  it,  it  is  true, 
were  his  own  contemporaries,  and  had  been  his  ac- 
quaintances in  the  old  days  when  these  very  dons 
themselves  traversed  their  quadrangles  with  such 
hopes  and  fears  in  respect  to  the  issue  of  an  exami- 
nation, as  the  destruction  of  the  world  or  its  salva- 
tion would  scarcely  rouse  in  them  now;  but  what 
was  it  likely  they  could  know  about  a man  who  at 
sixty-five  was  only  a curate,  who  had  never  asked 
for  anything,  never  tried  for  anything;  but  had  kept 
himself  out  of  sight  and  knowledge  for  a lifetime? 
Those  of  them  who  had  a dim  recollection  that 
“old  St.  John”  was  Chester’s  curate  in  charge, 
naturally  thought  that  he  held  that  precarious  and 


Io6  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

unprofitable  place  for  so  long,  because  of  some 
personal  connection  with  the  locality,  or  preference 
for  it,  which  he  was  well  off  enough  to  be  able  to 
indulge.  He  had  been  poor  in  his  youth,  but 
probably  his  wife  had  had  money,  or  something 
had  fallen  to  him.  What  so  likely  as  that  some- 
thing good  should  fall  by  inheritance  to  a man  with 
such  a patrician  name?  Therefore  let  nobody  blame 
the  dons.  They  might  have  been  capable  (though 
I don’t  know  whether  they  would  have  had  any 
right  to  exercise  their  patronage  so)  of  a great  act 
of  poetic  justice,  and  might  have  given  to  the  un- 
distinguished but  old  member  of  their  college  the 
reward  of  his  long  exertions,  had  they  known.  But 
as  they  did  not  know,  what  could  these  good  men 
do  but  allot  it  to  the  excellent  young  Fellow — 
already  the  winner  of  all  kinds  of  honours — who 
condescended  to  be  willing  to  accept  the  humble 
rectory?  Everybody  said  it  was  not  worth  Mild- 
may’s  while  to  shelve  himself  in  an  obscure  place 
like  Brentburn;  that  it  was  a strange  thing  for  him 
to  do;  that  he  would  hate  it  as  poor  Chester — also 
an  extremely  accomplished  man  and  fellow  of  his 
college — had  done.  Gossips — and  such  beings  exist 
in  the  most  classical  places — feared  that  he  must 
want  the  money;  though  some  thought  he  was 
merely  disinclined  to  let  a tolerable  small  living, 
not  far  from  town,  and  in  a good  county,  where 
there  were  many  ^‘nice  families,”  pass  him;  but  very 
few  people,  so  far  as  I am  aware,  thought  of  any 
higher  motive  which  a popular  young  don  could 
have  for  such  a fancy. 


THE  NEW  RECTOR. 


107 


Mr.  Mildmay  was  quite  one  of  the  advanced 
rank  of  young  Oxford  men.  I have  never  been 
able  to  understand  how  it  was  that  he  continued 
more  or  less  orthodox,  but  he  had  done  so  by 
special  constitution  of  mind,  I suppose,  which  in 
some  tends  to  belief  as  much  as  in  some  others  it 
tends  to  unbelief.  He  was  not  one  of  those  un- 
comfortable people  who  are  always  following  out 
‘‘truth”  to  some  bitter  end  or  other,  and  refusing 
all  compromise.  Perhaps  he  was  not  so  profound 
as  are  those  troublesome  spirits,  but  he  was  a great 
deal  happier,  and  a great  deal  more  agreeable.  It 
is  quite  possible  that  some  young  reader  may  object 
to  this  as  a shameful  begging  of  the  question 
whether  it  is  not  best  to  follow  “truth”  with  bosom 
bare  into  whatsoever  wintry  lands  that  oft-bewildered 
power  may  lead.  I don’t  know;  some  minds  have 
little  inclination  towards  the  sombre  guesses  of 
science,  new  or  old;  and  perhaps  some  may  prefer 
Roger  Mildmay  for  the  mere  fact  that  he  did  not 
feel  himself  to  have  outgrown  Christianity;  which,  I 
confess,  is  my  own  feeling  on  the  subject.  How- 
ever, if  it  is  any  satisfaction  to  the  said  young 
reader,  I may  as  well  avow  that  though  nature  kept 
him  from  being  sceptical,  that  kindly  nurse  did  not 
hinder  him  from  throwing  himself  into  much  semi- 
intellectual foolishness  in  other  ways.  To  hear  him 
talk  of  art  was  enough  to  make  all  the  Academy 
dance  with  fury,  and  drive  the  ordinary  learner, 
however  little  attached  to  the  Academy,  into  ab- 
solute imbecility;  and  his  rooms  were  as  good  as  a 
show,  with  all  the  last  fantastical  delights  of  the  day 


io8 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


— more  like  a museum  of  china  and  knick-knacks 
than  rooms  to  live  in.  His  floors  were  littered  with 
rugs,  over  which,  in  the  aesthetic  dimness,  unwary 
visitors  tumbled;  his  walls  were  toned  into  olive 
greens  or  peacock  blues,  dark  enough  to  have  defied 
all  the  sunshine  of  the  Indies  to  light  them  up.  He 
had  few  pictures;  but  his  rooms  were  hung  with 
photographs  “taken  direct,”  and  a collection  of  old 
china  plates,  which  perhaps,  in  their  primitive  colours 
and  broad  effect,  “came”  better  than  pictures  in 
the  subdued  and  melancholy  light.  But  why  insist 
upon  these  details?  A great  many  highly-cultured 
persons  have  the  same  kind  of  rooms,  and  Mildmay 
was  something  more  than  a highly- cultured  person. 
All  this  amused  and  occupied  him  very  much — for 
indeed  collecting  is  a very  amusing  occupation;  and 
when  he  had  found  something  “really  good”  in  an 
old  curiosity  shop,  it  exhilarated  him  greatly  to 
bring  it  home,  and  find  a place  for  it  among  his 
precious  stores,  and  to  make  it  “compose”  with  the 
other  curiosities  around  it.  As  sheer  play,  I don’t 
know  any  play  more  pleasant;  and  when  he  looked 
round  upon  the  dim  world  of  ohjets  d^art  that 
covered  all  his  walls,  shelves,  and  tables,  and 
marked  the  fine  pictorial  effect  of  the  one  brilliant 
spot  of  light  which  the  green  shade  of  his  reading- 
lamp  prevented  from  too  great  diffusion  — when, 
I say,  looking  up  from  his  studies,  Mr.  Mildmay 
looked  round  upon  all  this,  and  felt  that  only  very 
fine  taste,  and  much  patient  labour,  supported  by  a 
tolerably  well-filled  purse,  could  have  brought  it  all 
together,  and  arranged  everything  into  one  harmo- 


THE  NEW  RECTOR.  lOQ 

nious  whole,  there  came  a glow  of  gentle  satisfac- 
tion to  the  heart  of  the  young  don. 

But  then  he  sighed.  All  perfection  is  melan- 
choly. When  you  have  finally  arranged  your  last 
acquisition,  and  look  round  upon  a completeness 
which,  even  for  the  introduction  of  additional 
beauty,  it  seems  wicked  to  disturb,  what  can  you 
do  but  sigh?  And  there  was  more  than  this  in  the 
breath  of  melancholy — the  long-drawn  utterance  of 
an  unsatisfied  soul  in  Mildmay's  sigh.  After  all,  a 
man  cannot  live  for  china,  for  aesthetic  arrangement, 
for  furniture,  however  exquisite;  or  even  for  art, 
when  he  is  merely  a critic,  commentator,  and  ama- 
teur— not  a worker  in  the  same.  You  may  suppose 
that  he  was  weary  of  his  loneliness;  that  he  wanted 
a companion,  or  those  domestic  joys  which  are  sup- 
posed to  be  so  infinitely  prized  in  England.  I am 
sorry  to  say  this  was  not  the  case.  The  class  to 
which  Mildmay  belongs  are  rather  in  the  way  of 
scouting  domestic  joys.  A man  who  makes  a god- 
dess of  his  room,  who  adores  china,  and  decks  his 
mantleshelf  with  lace,  seldom  (in  theory)  wants  a 
wife,  or  sighs  for  a companion  of  his  joys  and 
sorrows.  For  why?  He  does  not  deal  much  in 
sorrows  or  in  joys.  The  deepest  delight  which  can 
thrill  the  soul  in  the  discovery  of  old  Worcester  or 
royal  Dresden,  scarcely  reaches  to  the  height  of 
passion;  and  even  if  a matchless  cup  of  Henri  Deux 
were  to  be  shivered  to  pieces  in  your  hand,  your 
despair  would  not  appeal  to  human  sympathy  as 
would  the  loss  of  a very  much  commoner  piece  of 
flesh  and  blood.  And  then  young  ladies  as  a class 


no 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


are  not,  I fear,  great  in  the  marks  of  china,  and 
even  in  the  feminine  speciality  of  lace  require  years 
to  mellow  them  into  admiration  of  those  archaeo- 
logical morsels  which  cannot  be  worn.  Besides, 
the  very  aspec^t  of  such  rooms  as  those  I have  in- 
dicated (not  being  bold  enough  to  attempt  to  de- 
scribe them)  is  inimical  to  all  conjoint  and  common 
existence.  Solitude  is  taken  for  granted  in  all  those 
dainty  arrangements;  in  the  dim  air,  the  dusky 
walls,  the  subdued  tone.  A child  in  the  place,  ye 
heavens!  imagination  shivers,  and  dares  not  con- 
template what  might  follow. 

And  then  Mr.  Mildmay  had  exhausted  the 
delight.  I believe  his  rooms  were  papered  with 
three  different  kinds  of  the  choicest  paper  that  ever 
came  out  of  Mr.  Morris’s  hands.  His  curtains  had 
been  embroidered  in  the  art  school  of  needlework 
on  cloth  woven  and  dyed  expressly  for  him.  An 
ancient  piece  of  lovely  Italian  tapestry  hung  over 
one  door,  and  another  was  veiled  by  a glorious  bit 
of  eastern  work  from  Damascus  or  Constantinople. 
His  Italian  cabinets  were  enough  to  make  you  faint 
with  envy;  his  Venice  glass — but  why  should  I go 
on?  The  rugs  which  tripped  you  up  as  you  threaded 
your  way  through  the  delicate  artificial  twilight  were 
as  valuable  as  had  they  been  woven  in  gold;  and 
no  sooner  was  it  known  that  Mildmay  had  accepted 
a living  than  all  the  superior  classes  in  the  southern 
half  of  England  pricked  up  their  ears.  Would  there 
be  a sale?  About  a thousand  connoisseurs  from 
all  parts  of  the  country  balanced  themselves  meta- 
phorically on  one  foot  like  Raphael’s  St.  Michael, 


THE  NEW  RECTOR. 


Ill 


ready  to  swoop  down  at  the  first  note  of  warning. 
I am  not  sure  that  among  railway  authorities  there 
were  not  preparations  for  a special  train. 

Mr.  Mildmay  had  got  tired  of  it  all.  Suddenly 
in  that  dainty  dimness  of  high  culture  it  had 
occurred  to  him  that  studies  of  old  art  and  accu- 
mulations of  the  loveliest  furniture  were  not  life. 
What  was  life?  There  are  so  many  that  ask  that 
question,  and  the  replies  are  so  feeble.  The  com- 
monest rendering  is  that  which  Faust  in  sheer  dis- 
gust of  intellectualism  plunged  into — pleasure;  with 
what  results  the  reader  knows.  Pleasure  in  its 
coarser  meaning,  in  the  Faust  sense,  and  in  the 
vulgar  sensual  sense,  was  only  a disgust  to  such  a 
man  as  Roger  Mildmay.  What  could  he  have  done 
with  his  fine  tastes  and  pure  habits  in  the  coulisses 
or  the  casinos?  He  would  only  have  recoiled  with 
the  sickening  sensation  of  physical  loathing  as  well 
as  mental.  What  then?  Should  he  marry  and  have 
a family,  which  is  the  virtuous  and  respectable 
answer  to  his  question?  He  had  no  inclination 
that  way.  The  woman  whom  he  was  to  marry  had 
not  yet  risen  on  his  firmament,  and  he  was  not  the 
kind  of  man  to  determine  on  marriage  in  the  ab- 
stract, dissociated  from  any  individual.  How  then 
was  he  to  know  life,  and  have  it?  Should  he  go 
off  into  the  distant  world  and  travel,  and  discover 
new  treasures  of  art  in  unsuspected  places,  and 
bring  home  his  trophies  from  all  quarters  of  the 
world?  But  he  had  done  this  so  often  already  that 
even  the  idea  almost  fatigued  him.  Besides,  all 
these  expedients,  pleasure,  domesticity,  travel,  would 


II2 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


all  have  been  ways  of  pleasing  himself  only,  and 
he  had  already  done  a great  deal  to  please  himself. 
Life  must  have  something  in  it  surely  of  sharper, 
more  pungent  flavour.  It  could  not  be  a mere 
course  of  ordinary  days  one  succeeding  another, 
marked  out  by  dinners,  books,  conversations,  the 
same  thing  over  again,  never  more  than  an  hour  of 
it  at  a time  in  a man’s  possession,  nothing  in  it 
that  could  not  be  foreseen  and  mapped  out.  This 
could  not  be  life.  How  was  he  to  get  at  life?  He 
sat  and  wondered  over  this  problem  among  his 
beautiful  collections.  He  had  nothing  to  do,  you 
will  say;  and  yet  you  can’t  imagine  how  busy  he 
was.  In  short,  he  was  never  without  something  to 
do.  He  had  edited  a Greek  play,  he  had  written 
magazine  articles,  he  had  read  papers  before  literary 
societies,  he  had  delivered  lectures.  Few,  very  few, 
were  his  unoccupied  moments.  He  knew  a great 
many  people  in  the  highest  classes  of  society,  and 
kept  up  a lively  intercourse  with  the  most  intelli- 
gent, the  most  cultivated  minds  of  his  time.  He 
was,  indeed,  himself  one  of  the  most  highly  cultured 
persons  of  his  standing;  yet  here  he  sat  in  the  most 
delightful  rooms  in  his  college,  sighing  for  life, 
life! 

What  is  life?  Digging,  ploughing,  one  can 
understand  that;  but  unfortunately  one  cannot  dig, 
and  ‘‘to  beg  I am  ashamed.”  These  familiar  words 
suggested  themselves  by  the  merest  trick  of  the  ear 
to  his  mind  unawares.  To  beg,  the  Franciscans  he 
had  seen  in  old  Italy  had  not  been  at  all  ashamed; 
neither  were  the  people  who  now  and  then  pene- 


THE  NEW  RECTOR. 


1^3 


trated  into  college  rooms  with — if  not  the  Francis- 
can's wallet,  or  the  penitent’s  rattling  money-box — 
lists  of  subscriptions  with  which  to  beguile  the  un- 
wary. For  what?  For  hospitals,  schools,  missions, 
churches;  the  grand  deduction  to  be  drawn  from 
all  this  being  that  there  were  a great  many  people 
in  the  world,  by  their  own  fault  or  that  of  others, 
miserable,  sick,  ignorant,  wicked;  and  that  a great 
many  more  people,  from  good  or  indifferent  mo- 
tives, on  true  or  on  false  pretences,  were  making  a 
great  fuss  about  helping  them.  This  fuss  was  in  a 
general  way  annoying,  and  even  revolting  to  the 
dilettanti^  whose  object  is  to  see  and  hear  only 
things  that  are  beautiful,  to  encourage  in  themselves 
and  others  delightful  sensations;  but  yet  when  you 
came  to  think  of  it,  it  could  not  be  denied  that  the 
whole  system  of  public  charity  had  a meaning.  In 
some  cases  a false,  foolish,  wrong  meaning,  no 
doubt;  but  yet 

If  I were  to  tell  you  all  the  fancies  that  passed 
through  Roger  Mildmay’s  head  on  the  subject,  it 
would  require  volumes;  and  many  of  his  thoughts 
were  fantastic  enough.  The  fact  that  he  had  taken 
orders  and  was  the  man  he  was,  made  it  his  proper 
business  to  teach  others;  but  he  would  much  rather, 
he  thought,  have  reclaimed  waste  land,  or  some- 
thing of  that  practical  sort.  Yes,  to  reclaim  a bit 
of  useless  moorland  and  make  it  grow  oats  or  even 
potatoes — that  would  be  something;  but  then  un- 
fortunately the  ludicrous  side  of  the  matter  would 
come  over  him.  What  could  he  do  on  his  bit  of 
moorland  with  those  white  hands  of  his?  Would 


The  Curate  in  Charge. 


I I 4 THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

it  not  be  much  more  sensible  to  pay  honest  wages 
to  some  poor  honest  man  out  of  work,  and  let  him 
do  the  digging?  and  then  where  was  Roger  Mild- 
may?  still  left,  stranded,  high  and  dry,  upon  the 
useless  ground  of  his  present  existence.  Such  a 
man  in  such  a self-discussion  is  as  many  women 
are.  If  he  works,  what  is  the  good  of  it?  It  is  to 
occupy,  to  please  himself,  not  because  the  work  is 
necessary  to  others;  indeed,  it  is  taking  bread  out 
of  the  mouths  of  others  to  do  badly  himself  that 
which  another  man,  probably  lounging  sadly,  out 
of  work,  and  seeing  his  children  starve,  would  do 
well.  Let  him,  then,  go  back  to  his  own  profes- 
sion; and  what  was  he  to  do?  A clergyman  must 
preach,  and  he  did  not  feel  at  all  at  his  ease  in  the 
pulpit.  A clergyman  must  teach,  and  his  prevailing 
mood  was  a desire  to  learn.  A clergyman  must 
care  for  the  poor,  and  he  knew  nothing  about  the 
poor.  The  result  of  all  these  confused  and  un- 
satisfactory reasonings  with  himself  was  that  when 
the  living  of  Brentburn  was  offered  to  him  half 
in  joke,  he  made  a plunge  at  it,  and  accepted. 
‘‘Let  us  try!’'  he  said  to  himself.  Anything  was 
better  than  this  perplexity.  At  the  worst  he  could 
but  fail. 

Now,  Mr.  St.  John,  as  I have  said,  was  a mem- 
ber of  the  same  college,  and  had  served  the  parish 
of  Brentburn  for  twenty  years,  and  what  was  to 
Roger  Mildmay  an  adventure,  a very  doubtful  ex- 
periment, would  have  been  to  him  life  and  living; 
and  next  on  the  list  of  eligible  persons  after  Mr. 
Mildmay  was  the  Rev.  John  Ruffhead,  who  was  very 


THE  NEW  RECTOR. 


II5 

anxious  to  marry  and  settle,  and  was  a clergyman’s 
son  well  trained  to  his  work.  Such  injustices  are 
everywhere  around  us;  they  are  nobody’s  fault,  we 
say — they  are  the  fault  of  the  system;  but  what 
system  would  mend  them  it  is  hard  to  tell.  And, 
on  the  other  hand,  perhaps  neither  Mr.  St.  John 
nor  Mr.  Ruffhead  had  the  same  high  object  before 
them  as  Roger  had.  The  old  man  would  have 
gone  on  in  his  gentle  routine  just  as  he  had  done 
all  those  years,  always  kind,  soothing  the  poor  folk 
more  than  he  taught  them;  the  young  man  would, 
though  sure  to  do  his  duty,  have  thought  perhaps 
more  of  the  future  Mrs.  Ruffliead,  and  the  settling 
down,  than  of  any  kind  of  heroic  effort  to  realize 
life  and  serve  the  world.  So  that  on  the  whole, 
ideally,  my  dilettante  had  the  highest  ideal;  though 
the  practical  effect  of  him  no  one  could  venture  to 
foretell. 

He  had  decided  to  accept  the  living  of  Brent- 
burn  at  once,  feeling  the  offer  to  be  a kind  of 
answer  of  the  oracle — for  there  was  a certain 
heathenism  mingling  with  his  Christianity — to  his 
long- smouldering  and  unexpressed  desires;  but  be- 
fore concluding  formally  he  went,  by  the  advice  of 
one  of  his  friends,  to  look  at  the  place,  ‘‘to  see 
how  he  would  like  it.”  “Like  it!  do  I want  to  like 
it?”  he  said  to  himself.  Must  this  always  be  the 
first  question?  Was  it  not  rather  the  first  possi- 
bility held  out  to  him  in  the  world — of  duty,  and 
a real,  necessary,  and  certain  work  which  should 
not  be  to  please  himself?  He  did  not  want  to  like 
it.  Now,  men  of  Mildmay’s  turn  of  mind  are  sel- 

8* 


1 I 6 THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

dom  deeply  devoted  to  nature.  They  admire  a 
fine  landscape  or  fine  sunset,  no  doubt,  but  it  is 
chiefly  for  the  composition,  the  effects  of  light  and 
shade,  the  combination  of  colours.  In  the  loveliest 
country  they  sigh  for  picture  galleries  and  fine 
architecture,  and  cannot  please  themselves  with  the 
mists  and  the  clouds,  the  woods  and  the  waters, 
the  warm,  sweeet,  boundless  atmosphere  itself,  in 
which  others  find  beauty  and  mystery  unceasing. 
Yet  on  this  occasion  a different  result  took  place; 
although  it  was  contrary  to  his  own  principles, 
when  he  first  came  out  of  the  prosaic  little  rail- 
way at  Brentburn  and  saw  at  his  right  hand, 
one  rich  cloud  of  foliage  rounding  upon  another, 
and  all  the  wealth  of  princely  trees  standing  up 
in  their  battalions  under  the  full  warm  August 
sky;  and  on  the  other  the  sweet  wild  common 
bursting  forth  in  a purple  blaze  of  heather,  all 
belted  and  broken  with  the  monastic  gloom  of  the 
pine-woods  and  ineffable  blue  distances  of  the 
wilder  country — there  suddenly  fell  upon  him  a 
love  at  first  sight  for  this  insignificant  rural  place, 
which  I cannot  account  for  any  more  than  he  could. 
I should  be  disposed  to  say  that  the  scent  of  the 
fir-trees  went  to  his  head,  as  it  does  to  mine;  but 
then  the  very  soul  within  him  melted  to  the  great, 
broad,  delicious  greenness  of  shadows  in  the  forest; 
and  the  two  between  them  held  him  in  an  ecstasy, 
in  that  sweet  lapse  of  all  sense  and  thought  into 
which  nature  sometimes  surprises  us,  when  all  at 
once,  without  any  suspicion  on  our  part  of  what 
she  is  about,  she  throws  herself  open  to  us,  and 


THE  NEW  RECTOR. 


II7 


holds  out  her  tender  arms.  Mildmay  stood  in  this 
partial  trance,  not  knowing  what  he  was  doing,  for 
— two  full  minutes,  then  he  picked  himself  up, 
slightly  ashamed  of  his  ecstasy,  and  asked  his  way 
to  the  church,  and  said  to  himself  (as  I think  Mr, 
Ruskin  says  somewhere)  that  mere  nature  without 
art  to  back  her  up  is  little,  but  that  he  might  in- 
deed permit  himself  to  feel  those  indescribable 
sensations  if  he  could  look  at  all  this  as  a back- 
ground to  a beautiful  piece  of  ancient  architecture 
in  the  shape  of  a church.  Alas,  poor  Mr.  Mildmay! 
I don’t  know  why  it  had  never  been  broken  to  him. 
Ignorant  persons  had  said  very  nice  church,” 
perhaps  out  of  sheer  ignorance,  perhaps  from  the 
commercial  point  of  view  that  a new  church  in 
perfect  repair  is  much  more  delightful,  to  a young 
rector’s  pocket  at  least,  than  the  most  picturesque 
old  one  in  perpetual  need  of  restorations.  But 
anyhow,  when  the  church  of  Brentburn  did  burst 
upon  him  in  all  its  newness,  poor  Roger  put  out 
his  hand  to  the  first  support  he  could  find,  and 
felt  disposed  to  swoon.  The  support  which  he 
found  to  lean  on  was  the  wooden  rail,  round  a 
rather  nasty  duck-pond  which  lay  between  two  cot- 
tages, skirting  the  garden  hedge  of  one  of  them. 
Perhaps  it  was  the  odour  of  this  very  undelightful 
feature  in  the  scene  that  made  him  feel  like  fainting, 
rather  than  the  sight  of  the  church;  but  he  did  not 
think  so  in  the  horror  of  the  moment.  He  who 
had  hoped  to  see  the  distant  landscape  all  enhanced 
and  glorified,  by  looking  at  it  from  among  the  an- 
cestral elms  or  solemn  yew-trees  about  a venerable 


ii8  the  curate  in  charge. 

village  spire,  and  old  grey,  mossy  Saxon  walls — or 
beside  the  lovely  tracery  of  some  decorated  windov/ 
with  perhaps  broken  pieces  of  old  glass  glimmering 
out  like  emeralds  and  rubies!  The  church,  I have 
already  said,  was  painfully  new;  it  was  in  the  most 
perfect  good  order;  the  stones  might  have  been 
scrubbed  with  scrubbing-brushes  that  very  morning; 
and,  worse  than  all,  it  was  good  Gothic,  quite  correct 
and  unobjectionable.  The  poor  young  don’s  head 
drooped  upon  his  breast,  his  foot  slipped  on  the 
edge  of  the  duck-pond.  Never  was  a more  delicate 
distress;  and  yet  but  for  the  despairing  grasp  he  gave 
to  the  paling,  the  result  might  have  been  grotesque 
enough. 

‘‘Be  you  poorly,  sir?”  said  old  Mrs.  Joel,  who 
was  standing,  as  she  generally  was,  at  her  cottage 
door. 

“No,  no,  I thank  you,”  said  the  new  rector 
faintly;  “I  suppose  it  is  the  sun.” 

“Come  in  a bit  and  rest,  bless  you,”  said  Mrs. 
Jod;  “you  do  look  overcome.  It  is  a bit  strong  is 
that  water  of  hot  days.  Many  a one  comes  to  look 
at  our  cheuch.  There’s  a power  of  old  cheuches. 
about,  and  ours  is  the  only  one  I know  of  as  is 
new,  sir,  and  sweet  and  clean — though  I says  it 
as  shouldn’t,”  said  the  old  woman,  smoothing  her 
apron  and  curtsying  with  a conscious  smile. 

“You  are  the  sexton’s  wife?  you  have  the  charge 
of  it?”  said  Mr.  Mildmay. 

“Thank  my  stars!  I ain’t  no  man’s  wife,”  said 
Mrs.  Joel.  “I  be  old  John  Joel’s  widow — and  a 
queer  one  he  was;  and  the  curate  he  say  as  I was 


THE  NEW  RECTOR.  I I Q 

to  keep  the  place,  though  there's  a deal  of  jealousy 
about.  I never  see  in  all  my  born  days  a jealouser 
place  than  Brentburn." 

“Who  is  the  curate?"  asked  Mr.  Mildmay. 

“Bless  your  soul,  sir,  he'll  be  as  pleased  as 
Punch  to  see  you.  You  go  up  bold  to  the  big 
door  and  ask  for  Mr.  St.  John;  he  would  always  have 
the  hartis-gentlemen  and  that  sort  in,  to  take  a cup 
of  tea  with  him.  The  Missis  didn't  hold  with  it 
in  her  time.  She  had  a deal  of  pride,  though  you 
wouldn't  have  thought  it  at  first.  But  since  she's 
dead  and  gone,  Mr.  St.  John  he  do  have  his  way; 
and  two  pretty  young  ladies  just  come  from  school," 
said  Mrs.  Joel  with  a smirk.  She  was  herself  very 
curious  about  the  stranger,  who  was  evidently  not 
a “hartis-gentleman."  “Maybe  you  was  looking 
for  lodgings,  like?"  she  said,  after  a pause. 

“No,  no,"  said  Mildmay,  with  unnecessary  ex- 
planatoriness;  “I  was  only  struck  by  the  church,  in 
passing,  and  wished  to  know  who  was  the  clergy- 
man  " 

“Between  ourselves,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Joel,  ap- 
proaching closer  than  was  pleasant,  for  her  dinner 
had  been  highly  seasoned,  “I  don't  know  as  Mr. 
St.  John  is  what  you  call  the  clergyman.  He  ain't 
but  the  curate,  and  I do  hear  as  there  is  a real 
right  clergyman  a-coming.  But  you  won't  name  it, 
not  as  coming  from  me?  for  I can't  say  but  he's 
always  been  a good  friend." 

“Oh  no,  I shall  not  name  it.  Good  morning," 
cried  Mildmay  hurriedly.  A new  church,  a horrible 
duck-pond,  an  old  woman  who  smelt  of  onions.  He 


120 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


hurried  along,  scarcely  aware  in  his  haste  until  he 
arrived  in  front  of  it  that  the  house  beyond  the 
church  was  the  rectory,  his  future  home. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  Enemy. 

The  girls  I need  not  say  had  been  engaged  in 
calculations  long  and  weary  during  these  intervening 
days.  Cicely,  who  had  at  once  taken  possession  of 
all  the  details  of  housekeeping,  had  by  this  time 
made  a discovery  of  the  most  overwhelming  cha- 
racter; which  was  that  the  curate  was  in  arrears 
with  all  the  tradespeople  in  the  parish,  and  that 
the  “books,”  instead  of  having  the  trim  appearance 
she  remembered,  were  full  of  long  lists  of  things 
supplied,  broken  by  no  safe  measure  of  weeks,  but 
running  on  from  month  to  month  and  from  year 
to  year,  with  here  and  there  a melancholy  payment 
“to  account”  set  down  against  it.  Cicely  was  young 
and  she  had  no  money,  and  knew  by  her  own  ex- 
perience how  hard  it  was  to  make  it;  and  she  was 
overwhelmed  by  this  discovery.  She  took  the 
books  in  her  lap  and  crept  into  the  drawing-room 
beside  Mab,  who  was  making  a study  of  the  children 
in  the  dreary  stillness  of  the  afternoon.  The  two 
little  boys  were  posed  against  the  big  sofa,  on  the 
carpet.  The  young  artist  had  pulled  off  their 
shoes  and  stockings,  and,  indeed,  left  very  little 
clothes  at  all  upon  Charley,  who  let  her  do  as  she 
pleased  with  him  without  remonstrance,  sucking  his 


THE  ENEMY. 


I2I 


thumb  and  gazing  at  her  with  his  pale  blue  eyes. 
Harry  had  protested,  but  had  to  submit  to  the  tak- 
ing away  of  his  shoes,  and  now  sat  gloomily  re- 
garding his  toes,  and  trying  to  keep  awake  with 
supernatural  lurches  and  recoveries.  Charley,  more 
placid,  had  dropped  off.  He  had  still  his  thumb  in 
his  mouth,  his  round  cheek  lying  flushed  against 
the  cushion,  his  round  white  limbs  huddled  up  in  a 
motionless  stillness  of  sleep.  Harry  sat  upright,  as 
upright  as  possible,  and  nodded.  Mab  had  got 
them  both  outlined  on  her  paper,  and  was  working 
with  great  energy  and  absorption  when  Cicely  came 
in  with  the  books  in  her  lap.  ‘^Oh,  go  away,  go 
away,’^  cried  Mab,  ^‘whoever  you  are!  Don’t  disturb 
them!  If  you  wake  them  all  is  lost!” 

Cicely  stood  at  the  door  watching  the  group. 
Mab  had  improvised  an  easel,  she  had  put  on 
a linen  blouse  over  her  black  and  white  muslin 
dress.  She  had  closed  the  shutters  of  two  windows, 
leaving  the  light  from  the  middle  one  to  fall  upon 
the  children.  In  the  cool  shade,  moving  now  and 
then  a step  backwards  to  see  the  effect  of  her  draw- 
ing, her  light  figure,  full  of  purpose  and  energy,  her 
pretty  white  hand  a little  stained  with  the  charcoal 
with  which  she  was  working,  she  was  a picture  in 
herself.  Cicely,  her  eyes  very  red  and  heavy — for 
indeed  she  had  been  crying — and  the  bundle  of 
grocery  books  in  her  apron,  paused  and  looked  at 
her  sister  with  a gush  of  admiration,  a sharp  pinch 
of  something  like  envy.  Mab  could  do  this  which 
looked  like  witchcraft,  while  she  could  only  count, 
and  count,  and  cry  over  these  hopeless  books.  What 


122 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


good  would  crying  do?  If  she  cried  her  eyes  out  it 
would  not  pay  a sixpence.  Cicely  knew  that  she 
had  more  sense  than  Mab.  It  was  natural.  She 
was  nineteen,  Mab  only  eighteen,  and  a year  is  so 
much  at  that  age!  But  Mab  was  clever.  She  could 
do  something  which  Cicely  could  not  even  under- 
stand; and  she  would  be  able  to  make  money,  which 
Cicely  could  scarcely  hope  to  do.  It  was  envy,  but 
of  a generous  kind.  Cicely  went  across  the  room 
quite  humbly  behind  backs,  not  to  disturb  her 
sister^s  work,  and  sat  down  by  the  darkened  window, 
through  which  a fresh  little  breeze  from  the  garden 
was  coming  in.  It  distracted  her  for  a moment 
from  her  more  serious  cares  to  watch  the  work 
going  on.  She  thought  how  pretty  Mab  looked, 
lighting  up  the  poetical  darkness,  working  away  so 
vigorously  and  pleasantly  with  only  that  pucker  of 
anxiety  in  her  white  forehead,  lest  her  sitters  should 
move.  “Oh,  quiet,  quiet she  said,  almost  breath- 
less. “He  must  not  either  go  to  sleep  or  wake 
right  up,  till  I have  put  them  in.  Roll  the  ball  to 
him  softly.  Cicely,  quite  softly  as  if  he  were  a kitten.’’ 
Cicely  put  away  the  terrible  books  and  knelt  down 
on  the  carpet  and  rolled  the  big  ball,  which  Mab 
had  been  moving  with  her  foot  towards  little  do- 
zing Harry,  who  watched  it  with  eyes  glazing  over 
with  sleep.  The  light  and  the  warmth  and  the 
stillness  were  too  much  for  him.  Just  as  the  ball 
arrived  at  his  soft  little  pink  toes  he  tumbled  over 
all  in  a heap,  with  his  head  upon  Charley.  Mab 
gave  a cry  of  vexation.  “But  never  mind,  it  was 
not  your  fault,”  she  said,  to  make  up  for  her  im- 


THE  ENEMY. 


123 


patience.  And  indeed  Cicely  felt  it  was  rather 
hard  to  be  blamed. 

“After  all  it  does  not  matter,”  said  Mab.  “I 
have  done  enough — but  I shall  never  never  get 
them  to  look  like  that  again.  How  pretty  children 
are  even  when  they  are  ugly!  What  pictures  such 
things  make!  how  anybody  can  help  making  pic- 
tures all  the  day  long  I can’t  imagine.  It  is  only 
that  you  will  not  try.” 

“I  would  try  if  I had  any  hope,”  said  Cicely; 
“I  would  do  anything.  Oh,  I wonder  if  there  is 
anything  I could  do!” 

“ Why,  of  course  you  can  teach,”  said  Mab,  con- 
soling her,  “a  great  deal  better  than  I can.  I get 
impatient;  but  you  shan’t  teach;  I am  the  brother 
and  you  are  the  sister,  and  you  are  to  keep  my 
house.” 

“That  was  all  very  well,”  said  Cicely,  “so  long 
as  there  was  only  us  two;  but  now  look,”  she  cried 
pointing  to  the  two  children  lying  over  one 
another  in  the  light,  asleep,  “there  is  them — and 
papa ” 

“They  are  delightful  like  that,”  cried  Mab  start- 
ing up;  “oh,  quick,  give  me  that  portfolio  with  the 
paper!  I must  try  them  again.  Just  look  at  all 
those  legs  and  arms! — and  yet  they  are  not  a bit 
pretty  in  real  life,”  cried  Mab  in  the  fervour  of  her 
art,  making  a fine  natural  distinction. 

Cicely  handed  her  all  she  wanted,  and  looked 
on  with  wondering  admiration  for  a moment;  but 
then  she  shook  her  head  slightly  and  sighed.  “You 
live  in  another  world,”  she  said,  “you  artists.  Oh, 


124 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


Mab,  I don’t  want  to  disturb  you,  but  if  you  knew 
how  unhappy  I am ” 

‘‘What  is  the  matter?  and  why  should  you  be 
more  anxious  than  papa  is?”  cried  Mab  busy  with 
her  charcoal.  “Don’t  make  yourself  unhappy,  dear. 
Things  always  come  right  somehow.  I think  so  as 
well  as  papa.” 

“You  don’t  mind  either  of  you  so  long  as  you 

have Oh,  you  don’t  know  how  bad  things  are. 

Mab!  we  are  in  debt.” 

Mab  stopped  her  work,  appalled,  and  looked 
her  sister  in  the  face.  This  was  a terrible  word  to 
the  two  girls,  who  never  had  known  what  it  was  to 
have  any  money.  “In  debt!”  she  said. 

“Yes,  in  debt — do  you  wonder  now  that  I am 
wretched?  I don’t  know  even  if  papa  knows;  and  now 
he  has  lost  even  the  little  income  he  had,  and  we 
have  given  up  our  situations.  Oh,  Mab!  Mab!  think 
a little;  what  are  we  to  do?” 

Mab  let  her  chalk  fall  out  of  her  hand.  She 
went  and  knelt  down  by  Cicely’s  side,  and  put  one 
soft  cheek  against  another  as  if  that  would  do  any 
good.  “Oh,  how  can  I tell?”  she  said  with  tears 
in  her  eyes.  “I  never  was  any  good  to  think.  Is 
it  much — is  it  very  bad?  is  there  anything  we 
can  do?” 

Cicely  shed  a few  tears  over  the  butcher’s  book 
which  was  uppermost.  “If  we  were  staying  here 
for  ever,”  she  said,  “as  we  were  all  foolish  enough 
to  think  when  we  came — we  might  have  paid  it 
with  a struggle.  I should  have  sent  away  those 
two  maids,  and  tried  to  do  everything  myself.” 


THE  ENEMY. 


125 


“Everything,  Cicely?^'  Mab  was  as  much  ap- 
palled at  the  thought  of  life  without  a Betsy,  as  a 
fine  lady  would  be  denuded  of  her  establishment. 
The  want  of  a maid-of-all-work  represents  a dread- 
ful coming  down  in  life,  almost  more  than  a greater 
apparent  loss  does.  Her  countenance  fell,  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  took  a downward  curve,  and 
her  pride  received  a crushing  blow.  Yet  if  you 
consider  what  Betsy  was,  the  loss  was  not  deadly. 
But  as  usual  it  was  not  the  actual  but  the  senti- 
mental view  of  the  case  which  struck  the  girls. 

“Yes,”  said  Cicely,  with  a solemn  paleness  on 
her  face.  She  felt  the  humiliation  too.  “I  shouldn’t 
mind  doing  things,”  she  said,  her  voice  breaking  a 
little;  “it  is  what  people  will  think.  Us,  a clergy- 
man’s daughters!  But  what  is  the  use  even  of 
that?”  she  cried;  “it  will  do  no  good  now.  Papa 
must  leave  Brentburn,  and  we  have  not  a shilling, 
not  a penny  now,  to  pay  those  things  with.  I think 
and  think — but  I cannot  tell  what  we  are  to  do.” 

The  two  clung  together  in  an  agony  of  silence 
for  a moment;  how  many  wringings  of  the  heart 
have  been  caused  by  a little  money!  and  so  often 
those  who  suffer  are  not  those  who  are  to  blame. 
The  ruin  that  seemed  to  be  involved  was  un- 
speakable to  the  two  girls;  they  did  not  know 
what  the  butcher  and  the  baker  might  be  able  to 
do  to  them;  nor  did  they  know  of  any  way  of 
escape. 

“If  there  was  any  hope,”  said  Cicely  after  a 
pause,  “of  staying  here — I would  go  round  to  them 
all,  and  ask  them  to  take  pity  upon  us;  to  let  us 


126 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


begin  again  paying  every  week,  and  wait  till  we 
could  scrape  some  money  together  for  what  is  past. 
That,  I think,  would  be  quite  possible,  if  we  were 
to  stay;  and  we  might  take  pupils ” 

^‘To  be  sure,”  cried  Mab,  relieved,  springing  up 
with  the  easy  hope  of  a sanguine  disposition,  “and 
I might  get  something  to  do.  In  the  meantime  I 
can  finish  my  drawing.  They  have  not  stirred  a 
bit,  look.  Cicely.  They  are  like  two  little  white 
statues.  It  may  be  a pity  that  they  were  ever  born, 
as  Aunt  Jane  says — but  they  are  delightful  models. 
I almost  think,”  Mab  went  on  piously,  working  with 
bold  and  rapid  fingers,  “that  in  all  this  that  has 
happened  there  must  have  been  a special  providence 
for  me.” 

Cicely  looked  up  with  surprise  at  this  speech, 
but  she  made  no  reply.  She  was  too  full  of  thought 
to  see  the  humour  of  the  suggestion.  Mab’s  art 
furnished  a delightful  way  of  escape  for  her  out  of 
all  perplexity;  but  Cicely  could  only  go  back  to 
the  butcher’s  book.  “What  could  we  do,  I wonder,” 
she  said  half  to  herself,  for  she  did  not  expect  any 
advice  from  her  sister,  “about  the  living?  Very 
likely  they  don’t  know  anything  about  poor  papa. 
It  may  be  very  highminded  never  to  ask  for  any- 
thing,” said  poor  Cicely,  “but  then  how  can  we 
expect  that  other  people  will  come  and  thrust 
bread  into  our  mouths?  It  is  better  to  ask  than  to 
starve.  As  a matter  of  fact  we  cannot  starve 
quietly,  because  if  we  are  found  dead  of  hunger, 
there  is  sure  to  be  a business  in  the  papers,  and 
everything  exposed.  ^ Death,  from  starvation,  of  a 


THE  ENEMY. 


127 


clergyman’s  family!’  That  would  make  a great 
deal  more  fuss  than  quietly  going  and  asking  for 
something  for  papa.  I am  not  a bold  girl — at  least 
I don’t  think  so,”  she  cried,  her  soft  face  growing 
crimson  at  the  thought,  “but  I would  not  mind 
going  to  any  one,  if  it  was  the  Head  of  the  Col- 
lege, or  the  Lord  Chancellor,  or  even  the  Queen!” 

“I  wonder,”  said  Mab,  “if  we  met  the  Queen 
driving  in  the  forest — as  one  does  sometimes  — 
whether  we  might  not  ask  her,  as  people  used  to 
do  long  ago?  I don’t  think  she  would  mind.  Why 
should  she  mind?  She  could  not  be  frightened, 
or  even  angry,  with  two  girls.” 

Cicely  shook  her  head.  “The  Queen  has  no- 
thing to  do  with  Brentburn;  and  why  should  she 
be  troubled  with  us  any  more  than  any  other  lady? 
No!  that  sort  of  thing  has  to  be  done  in  a business 
way,”  said  the  elder  sister  seriously.  “If  I could 
find  out  who  was  the  chief  man,  the  Head  of  the 
College ” 

They  had  been  so  much  absorbed  that  they  had 
not  heard  any  sound  outside;  and  at  this  moment 
the  door  was  suddenly  thrown  open,  admitting  a 
flood  of  cross  light,  and  revealing  suddenly  the 
figures  of  the  curate  and  some  one  who  followed 
him. 

“My  dears!”  began  Mr.  St.  John,  surprised. 

“Oh,  papa!  you  have  woke  them  up.  You  have 
spoiled  my  light!”  cried  Mab,  in  despair. 

Cicely  started  to  her  feet,  letting  the  account 
books  tumble  on  the  floor;  and  the  two  little  boys 
raised  a simultaneous  howl  of  sleepy  woe.  “Harry 


12S 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


wants  his  tea,”  they  both  piped  piteously.  Mr. 
Mildmay,  whom  the  curate  had  met  at  the  gate, 
looked  with  a surprise  I cannot  describe  on  this 
extraordinary  scene.  The  white  babies  in  the  light 
had  seemed  to  him  at  first  an  exquisite  little  “com- 
position,” which  went  to  his  very  heart;  and  the 
two  other  figures,  half  lit  up  by  the  stream  of  un- 
welcome light  from  the  door,  bewildered  the  young 
man.  Who  were  they,  or  what?  One  indignant, 
holding  her  charcoal  with  artistic  energy;  the  other, 
startled,  gazing  at  himself  with  a hostile  sentiment, 
which  he  could  not  understand,  in  her  eyes. 

“My  love,”  said  the  gentle  curate,  “you  should 
not  make  a studio  of  the  drawing-room.”  Mr. 
St.  John  was  not  disturbed  by  the  wailing  of  the 
little  boys,  to  which,  I suppose,  he  was  used. 
“Cicely,  this  is  Mr.  Mildmay,  from  Oxford,  who  has 
come — to  look  at  the  parish,”  he  added,  with  a 
gentle  sigh.  “Let  us  have  tea.” 

Why  did  the  girl  look  at  him  with  that  paleness 
of  anger  in  her  face?  Mr.  Mildmay’s  attention  was 
distracted  from  the  drawing  and  the  artist,  who, 
naturally,  would  have  interested  him  most,  by  the 
gleam  of  hostility,  the  resentment  and  defiance  in 
Cicely’s  eyes. 

“Yes,  papa,”  she  said  shortly;  and  with  merely 
an  inclination  of  her  head  to  acknowledge  his  in- 
troduction to  her,  she  took  up  the  children,  Charley 
in  one  arm,  who  was  half  dressed;  Harry  under  the 
other,  whose  feet  were  bare,  and  carried  them  out 
of  the  room.  She  had  divined  the  first  moment 


THE  ENEMY. 


129 


she  saw  him,  a dark  figure  against  the  light,  who 
he  was;  and  I cannot  describe  the  bitterness  that 
swelled  like  a flood  through  poor  Cicely^s  heart.  It 
was  all  over,  then!  There  was  no  further  hope, 
however  fantastical,  from  College  or  Chancellor,  or 
Queen!  Fantastic,  indeed,  the  hope  had  been;  but 
Cicely  was  young,  and  had  been  more  buoyed  up 
by  this  delusion,  even  in  her  despair,  than  she  was 
aware  of.  She  felt  herself  fall  down,  down  into 
unspeakable  depths,  and  the  very  heart  within  her 
seemed  to  feel  the  physical  pain  of  it,  lying  crushed 
and  sore,  throbbing  all  over  with  sudden  suffering. 
The  passionate  force  of  the  shock  gave  her  strength, 
or  I do  not  think  she  could  have  carried  the  two 
children  away  as  she  did,  one  in  each  arm,  while 
the  stranger  looked  on  amazed.  Little  Charley, 
always  peaceable,  held  her  fast  round  the  neck, 
with  his  head  against  her  cheek;  but  Harry,  whom 
she  carried  under  her  other  arm,  lifted  his  head  a 
little  from  that  horizontal  position,  and  kept  up  his 
melancholy  whine.  She  was  not  fond  of  the  chil- 
dren; how  could  she  be?  and  I think  would  gladly 
have  given  them  a shake in  the  excitement  and 
misery  of  her  feelings.  It  was  so  hard  upon  the 
girl,  that  I think  she  might  be  forgiven  for  feeling 
that  thus  her  young  arms  were  to  be  hampered  all 
her  life;  and,  meanwhile,  she  felt  that  her  father 
and  sister  would  be  perfectly  amiable  to  the  stranger, 
who  was  about  to  supplant  them,  and  turn  them 
out  of  their  house.  This,  I am  afraid,  exasperated 
Cicely  as  much  as  anything  else.  “These  two’' 
would  have  no  arrihe  pensee;  they  would  be  per- 

The  Curate  in  Charge,  9 


130  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

fectly  kind  to  him,  as  though  he  were  acting  the 
part  of  their  best  friend. 

And,  indeed,  this  was  how  it  turned  out.  When 
she  went  back,  having  disposed  of  the  children,  to 
make  the  tea.  Cicely  found  Mab  and  Mr.  Mildmay 
in  great  amity  over  the  uncompleted  drawing.  He 
had  been  criticising,  but  he  had  been  praising  as 
well;  and  Mab  was  flushed  with  pleasure  and  in- 
terest. She  ran  off  laughing,  to  take  off  her  blouse 
and  wash  her  hands,  when  Cicely  came  in,  and  the 
elder  sister,  who  felt  that  her  eyes  were  still  red, 
felt  at  the  same  time  that  her  ungenial  and  con- 
strained reception  of  him  had  struck  the  new-comer. 
She  went  and  gathered  up  the  account-books  from 
the  floor  with  a sigh.  Despair  was  in  her  heart. 
How  could  she  talk  and  smile  as  the  others  had 
been  doing?  As  for  Mr.  St.  John,  he  was  as  pleased 
with  his  visitor  as  if  he  had  brought  him  some- 
thing, instead  of  taking  all  hope  from  him.  It  was 
rarely  the  good  man  saw  any  but  heavy  parish 
people — the  rural  souls  with  whom  indeed  he  was 
friendly,  but  who  had  nothing  to  say  to  him  except 
about  their  crops  and  local  gossip.  The  gossip  of 
Oxford  was  much  sweeter  to  his  ears.  He  liked  to 
tell  of  the  aspect  of  things  “in  my  time,”  as  I sup- 
pose we  all  do;  and  how  different  this  and  that 
was  now-a-days.  “I  knew  him  when  he  was  a curate 
like  myself,”  he  said,  with  a soft  sigh,  talking  of  the 
dean,  that  lofty  dignitary.  “We  were  at  school  to- 
gether, and  I used  to  be  the  better  man;”  and  this 
was  spoken  of  the  vice-chancellor  himself;  and  he 
enjoyed  and  wondered  to  hear  of  all  their  grandeurs. 


THE  ENEMY. 


131 

He  had  met  Mildmay  on  the  road,  looking  through 
the  gate  at  the  rectory,  and  had  addressed  him  in 
his  suave  old-world  way  as  a stranger.  Then  they 
had  talked  of  the  church,  that  most  natural  of  sub- 
jects between  two  clergymen;  and  then,  half  re- 
luctantly, half  with  a sense  of  compulsion,  the 
stranger  had  told  him  who  he  was.  Mr.  St.  John, 
though  he  was  poor,  had  all  the  hospitable  instincts 
of  a prince.  He  insisted  that  his  new  acquaintance 
should  come  in  and  see  the  house,  and  hear  about 
everything.  He  would  have  given  the  same  in- 
vitation, he  said  afterwards,  to  any  probable  new 
resident  in  the  parish,  and  why  not  to  the  new 
rector?  for  in  Mr.  St.  John’s  mind  there  was  no 
gall. 

But  to  describe  Mildmay’s  feelings  when  he 
was  suddenly  introduced  into  this  novel  world  is 
more  difficult.  He  was  taken  entirely  by  surprise. 
He  did  not  know  anything  about  the  curate  in 
charge.  If  he  thought  of  his  predecessor  at  all  it 
was  the  late  rector  he  thought  of,  who  had  died  on 
the  shores  of  the  Bay  of  Naples  after  a life-long 
banishment  from  England.  He  could  understand 
all  that;  to  go  away  altogether  after  art,  antiquity, 
Pompeii,  classic  editings,  and  aesthetic  delights  was 
perfectly  comprehensible  to  the  young  Oxford  man. 
But  this  — what  was  this?  The  old  man  before 
him,  so  gentle,  so  suave,  so  smiling,  his  own  in- 
ferior in  position,  for  was  he  not  rector  elect,  while 
Mr.  St.  John  was  but  curate?  Yet  so  far  above 
him  in  years  and  experience,  and  all  that  con- 
stitutes superiority  among  gentlemen  of  equal 

9^ 


13^ 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


breeding.  Why  was  he  here  as  curate?  and  why 
did  that  girl  look  at  himself  with  so  much  sup- 
pressed passion  in  her  eyes?  and  where  had  the 
other  been  trained  to  draw  so  well?  and  what  was 
the  meaning  of  the  two  children,  so  unlike  all  the 
others,  whom  his  young  enemy  had  carried  off 
impetuously,  instead  of  ringing  the  bell  for  their 
nurse  as  any  one  else  would  have  done?  Mild- 
may  felt  a thrilling  sensation  of  newness  as  he  sat 
down  at  the  tea-table  and  looked  on,  an  interested 
spectator  at  all  that  was  proceeding  under  his  eyes. 
This  in  its  way  was  evidently  life;  there  was  no 
mistaking  the  passion  that  existed  underneath  this 
quiet  surface,  the  something  more  than  met  the  eye. 
Was  it  a skeleton  in  the  closet,  as  the  domestic 
cynic  says?  But  these  were  not  words  that  seemed 
to  apply  to  this  calm  old  man  and  these  young 
girls.  It  was  life,  not  the  quiet  of  books,  and 
learned  talk,  and  superficial  discussion,  but  a quiet 
full  of  possibilities,  full  of  hidden  struggle  and 
feeling.  Mildmay  felt  as  if  he  had  come  out  of 
his  den  in  the  dark  like  an  owl,  and  half  blinking 
in  the  unusual  light,  was  placed  as  spectator  of 
some  strange  drama,  some  episode  full  of  interest, 
to  the  character  of  which  he  had  as  yet  no  clue. 

‘‘You  are  looking  at  the  furniture;  it  is  not 
mine,”  said  Mr.  St.  John,  “except  the  carpets, 
which,  as  you  say,  are  much  worn.  The  other 
things  are  all  Mr.  Chester's.  I am  expecting  every 
day  to  hear  what  is  to  be  done  with  them. 
Most  likely  they  will  sell  it;  if  you  wanted  any- 
thing-^^ ” 


THE  ENEMY. 


133 


Mild  may  made  a gesture  of  horror  in  spite  of 
himself,  and  Mab  laughed. 

^‘You  do  not  think  Mr.  Mildmay  wants  all  that 
mahogany,  papa?  The  catafalque  there,  Cicely 
and  I agreed  it  was  more  like  a tomb  in  West- 
minster Abbey  than  anything  else.’^ 

‘‘What  is  amiss  with  it?’’  said  Mr.  St.  John. 
“I  always  understood  it  was  very  good.  I am  told 
they  don’t  make  things  nearly  so  strong  or  so 
substantial  now.  Poor  Chester!  He  was  a man 
of  very  fine  taste,  Mr.  Mildmay.  But  why  do  you 
laugh,  my  dear?  That  was  why  he  was  so  fond  of 
Italy;  shattered  health,  you  know.  Those  men  who 
are  so  fond  of  art  are  generally  excitable;  a little 
thing  has  an  effect  upon  them.  Cicely,  give  Mr. 
Mildmay  some  tea.” 

“Yes,  papa,”  said  Cicely;  and  gave  the  stranger 
a look  which  made  him  think  his  tea  might  be 
poisoned.  Mr.  St.  John  went  maundering  kindly — - 
“You  said  you  were  going  to  London,  and  had 
left  your  things  at  the  station?  Why  shouldn’t  you 
stay  all  night  here  instead?  There  are  a great 
many  things  that  I would  like  to  show  you — the 
church  and  the  school  for  instance,  and  I should 
like  to  take  you  to  see  some  of  my  poor  people. 
Cicely,  we  can  give  Mr.  Mildmay  a bed?” 

Cicely  looked  up  at  her  father  quickly.  There 
was  a half-entreaty , a pathetic  wonder,  mingled 
with  anger,  in  her  eyes.  “How  can  you?”  she 
seemed  to  say.  Then  she  answered  hesitating, 
“There  are  plenty  of  beds,  but  I don’t  know  if 
they  are  aired — if  they  are  comfortable.”  Strangely 


^34 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


enough,  the  more  reluctant  she  was  to  have  him, 
the  more  inclined  Mildmay  felt  to  stay. 

^‘It  is  very  kind,”  he  said.  ‘‘I  cannot  think 
how  it  is  possible  that  I can  have  had  the  assur- 
ance to  thrust  myself  upon  you  like  this.  I am 
afraid  Miss  St.  John  thinks  it  would  be  very  trouble- 
some.” 

“Troublesome!  There  is  no  trouble  at  all. 
Cicely  is  not  so  foolish  and  inhospitable,”  said 
the  curate  in  full  current  of  his  open-heartedness. 
“My  dear,  it  is  fine  warm  weather,  and  Mr.  Mild- 
may is  a young  man.  He  is  not  afraid  of  rheu- 
matics like  the  old  people  in  the  parish.  He  and 
I will  walk  up  to  the  station  after  tea  and  fetch  his 
bag,  and  I will  show  him  several  things  on  the 
way.  You  will  tell  Betsy?” 

“I  will  see  that  everything  is  ready,”  she  said, 
with  so  much  more  meaning  in  the  words  than 
was  natural  or  necessary.  Her  eyes  were  a little 
dilated  with  crying,  and  slightly  red  at  the  edges; 
there  was  surprise  and  remonstrance  in  them,  and 
she  did  not  condescend  by  a single  word  to  second 
her  father’s  invitation.  This  settled  the  question. 
Had  she  asked  him,  Mildmay  might  have  been 
indifferent;  but  as  she  did  not  ask  him,  he  made 
up  his  mind  it  was  quite  necessary  he  should 
stay. 

“I  shall  perhaps  see  you  finish  that  group,”  he 
said  to  Mab,  who  was  interested  and  amused  by 
the  novelty  of  his  appearance,  as  her  father  was. 

“Ah,  but  I shall  never  get  them  into  the  same 


THE  ENEMY. 


135 


pose!  If  papa  had  not  come  in  so  suddenly,  waking 

them — besides  spoiling  my  light 

‘‘I  am  afraid  it  was  partly  my  fault,”  he  said; 
“but  I did  not  expect  to  be  brought  into  the  pre- 
sence of  an  artist.” 

The  colour  rose  on  Mab’s  cheeks.  “Please 
don’t  flatter  me,”  she  said.  “I  want  so  much  to 
be  an  artist.  Shall  I ever  be  able  to  do  anything, 
do  you  think?  for  you  seem  to  know.” 

Cicely  looked  at  her  sister,  her  eyes  sparkling 
with  offence  and  reproach.  “The  people  who  know 
you  best  think  so,”  she  said.  “It  is  not  right  to 
ask  a stranger.  How  can  Mr.  Mildmay  know?” 
How  hostile  she  was!  between  her  smiling 
pretty  sister,  who  was  ready  to  talk  as  much  as  he 
pleased,  and  her  kind  old  suave  father,  what  a 
rugged  implacable  young  woman!  What  could  he 
have  done  to  her?  Mildmay  felt  as  much  aggrieved 
when  she  called  him  a stranger,  as  if  it  had  been 
a downright  injury.  “I  know  a little  about  art,” 
he  said  quite  humbly;  “enough  to  perceive  that 
your  sister  has  a great  deal  of  real  talent.  Miss 
St.  John.” 

“Yes,  yes,  she  is  clever,”  said  the  curate.  “I 
hope  it  will  be  of  some  use  to  you,  my  poor  Mab. 
Now,  Mr.  Mildmay,  let  us  go.  I want  to  show  you 
the  rectory  fields,  and  the  real  village,  which  is 
some  way  off.  You  must  not  think  this  cluster  of 
houses  is  Brentburn.  It  is  pleasant  walking  in  the 
cool  of  the  afternoon,  and,  my  dears,  a walk  will 
be  good  for  you  too.  Come  down  by  the  common 
and  meet  us.  Cicely,”  he  added  in  a half- whisper, 


136  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

Standing  aside  to  let  his  guest  pass,  “my  dear, 
you  are  not  so  polite  as  I hoped.  I wish  you 
would  look  more  kind  and  more  pleased.’’ 

“But  I am  not  pleased.  Oh,  papa,  why  did 
you  ask  him?  I cannot  bear  the  sight  of  him,” 
she  cried. 

“My  love!”  said  the  astonished  curate.  He 
was  so  much  surprised  by  this  outburst  that  he 
did  not  know  how  to  reply.  Then  he  put  his 
hand  softly  upon  her  forehead,  and  looked  into 
her  eyes.  “I  see  what  it  is.  You  are  a little 
feverish:  you  are  not  well.  It  is  the  hot  weather, 
no  doubt,”  he  said. 

“Oh,  papa!  I am  well  enough;  but  I am  very 
wretched.  Let  me  speak  to  you  when  we  have  got 
rid  of  this  man — before  you  go  to  bed.” 

“Surely,  my  dear,”  he  said  soothingly,  and 
kissed  her  forehead.  “I  should  advise  you  to  lie 
down  for  a little,  and  keep  quiet,  and  the  fever 
may  pass  off.  But  I must  not  keep  my  guest  wait- 
ing,” and  with  this  Mr.  St.  John  went  away,  talking 
cheerfully  in  the  hall  to  his  companion  as  he  re- 
joined him.  “It  is  trying  weather,”  they  heard  him 
saying.  “I  stopped  behind  for  a moment  to  speak 
to  my  eldest  daughter.  I do  not  think  she  is 
well.” 

“Will  papa  discuss  your  health  with  this  new 
man?”  cried  Mab.  “How  funny  he  is!  But  don’t 
be  so  savage,  Ciss.  If  it  must  be,  let  us  make  the 
best  of  it.  Mr.  Mildmay  is  very  nice  to  talk  to. 
Let  us  take  whatever  amusement  is  thrown  in  our 
w,ay.” 


IN  THE  PARISH. 


137 


^^Oh,  amusement!”  said  Cicely.  ^‘You  are  like 
papa;  you  don’t  think  what  is  involved.  This  is 
an  end  of  everything.  What  are  we  to  do  ? Where 
are  we  to  go  to?  His  name  is  not  Mildmay;  it  is 
Ruin  and  Destruction.  It  is  all  I can  do  not  to 
burst  out  upon  him  and  ask  him,  oh!  how  has  he 
the  heart — how  has  he  the  heart  to  come  here!” 

‘Tf  you  did  I think  he  would  not  come,”  said 
Mab  calmly.  “What  a pity  people  cannot  say  ex- 
actly what  they  think.  But  if  he  gave  it  up,  there 
would  be  some  one  else.  We  must  make  up  our 
minds  to  it.  And  how  beautifully  poor  papa  be- 
haves through  it  all.” 

“I  wish  he  were  not  so  beautiful!”  cried  Cicely 
in  her  despair,  almost  grinding  her  white  teeth.  “I 
think  you  will  drive  me  mad  between  you — papa 
and  you.” 


CHAPTER  X. 

In  the  Parish. 

Mr.  Mildmay  had  a very  pleasant  walk.  He 
went  through  Brentburn  proper,  which  was  a mile 
from  the  church  on  the  rich  woodland  side  of  the 
parish,  an  ordinary  little  village,  a mixture  of  old 
picturesque  Berkshire  cottages,  with  high  sloping 
roofs  and  aged  harmonious  mossy  brick  walls,  and 
very  new  square  houses  in  the  bilious  brick  of 
modern  use — mean  and  clean  and  angular.  The 
cottages,  with  their  wild  old  gardens  and  mossed 
apple-trees  delighted  him;  but  the  curate  shook  his 


138 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


head,  ^‘They  will  be  the  curse  of  your  life,”  he  said 
solemnly,  at  which  the  young  Oxford  man  was  dis- 
posed to  laugh. 

A few  people  were  standing  about  their  doors 
enjoying  the  cool  evening,  at  whom  the  new  rector 
looked  with  curiosity.  They  were  very  common- 
place people,  with  the  set  hard  faces  so  common 
among  the  rural  poor,  half  caused  by  exposure  to 
the  open  air,  and  half  by  the  dull  routine  in  which 
their  life  is  spent.  Mildmay  looked  at  them  wist- 
fully. Were  they  the  kind  of  people  among  whom 
he  could  find  the  life  he  sought?  A few  of  the 
women  were  gossiping,  the  men  stared  blankly  at 
him  as  he  passed,  saluting  the  curate  gruffly;  and 
evidently  the  wag  among  them  made  some  rough 
joke,  received  with  loud  laughter,  upon  the  two 
black-coats. 

‘‘Yes,”  said  the  curate  mildly,  “that  fellow  Joe 
Endley  is  one  of  the  worst  in  the  parish.  It  was 
at  us,  no  doubt,  they  were  laughing.  Anything 
above  their  own  level,  except  money,  they  don^t 
understand;  and  they  know  I have  no  money. 
Good  evening,  Mr.  Wilkins.  What  a sweet  evening 
it  is!” 

“Good  evening,  sir,”  said  the  grocer,  coming, 
with  his  apron  round  him  from  his  shop-door.  “1 
thought  perhaps  as  you  was  cornin’  to  me,  sir,  along 
o’  the  letter  I sent  you.” 

“I  did  not  get  any  letter,”  said  Mr.  St.  John, 
looking  at  the  grocer  in  a helpless,  pitiful  way, 
which  his  companion  remarked  wonderingly.  The 


IN  THE  PARISH.  l39 

curate  seemed  to  shrink  somehow:  a painful  look 
came  upon  his  face. 

sent  up  this  afternoon  with  my  cart,”  said 
Wilkins,  “to  say  as,  if  it  was  quite  convenient ” 

“My  daughter  will  see  to  it — my  daughter  will 
see  to  it,”  said  the  curate  anxiously.  “I  am  occu- 
pied at  present,  as  you  perceive,  and  in  a hurry. 
She  will  see  you,  or  I,  to-morrow.” 

And  he  shuffled  on  through  the  dust  of  the 
highroad,  quickening  his  pace.  His  step  had  been 
the  long,  firm,  manly  step  of  a man  still  young,  till 
they  met  with  this  interruption.  But  poor  Mr.  St. 
John  fell  into  a shuffle  when  he  met  the  grocer. 
His  cheek  got  a hectic  flush;  he  shrank  visibly;  his 
knees  and  his  elbows  grew  prominent.  He  did  not 
speak  again  till  they  had  got  beyond  the  village. 
Then  he  drew  breath,  and  his  natural  outline  came 
slowly  back.  “You  will  find  much  hardness  among 
the  people,”  he  said;  “Heaven  forbid  that  I should 
blame  them,  poor  souls:  they  live  hardly,  and  have 
hardness  to  bear  from  others;  but  when  any  ques- 
tion arises  between  them  and  one  who  has  unfor- 
tunately the  niceties — the  feelings — that  we  are 

brought  up  to ” (the  curate  stopped);  “and  I 

never  was  used  to  it,”  he  said,  as  if  to  himself,  in  a 
low  voice. 

What  did  it  all  mean?  the  new  rector  said  to 
himself.  I think  it  was  easy  enough  to  divine,  for 
my  part;  but  then  the  rector  was  young,  and  had 
always  been  well  off,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  him 
that  a grocer,  simply  as  grocer,  could  have  any 


140 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


power  over  a clergyman;  more  and  more  he  felt 
convinced  that  some  drama,  some  domestic  tragedy, 
must  be  connected  with  the  St.  Johns,  and  he  felt 
more  and  more  eager  to  find  it  out.  They  went  to 
the  station,  and  sent  a boy  to  the  rectory  with  Mild- 
may’s  portmanteau,  and  then  they  strayed  home  by 
the  common,  across  which  the  setting  sun  threw  its 
very  last  slanting  arrow  of  gold. 

‘‘This  is  delightful!’^  said  Mildmay.  “What 
freedom!  what  breadth  of  atmosphere!  One  feels 
oneself  on  the  moors,  in  the  great,  ample  world, 
not  shut  in  by  walls  and  houses.” 

“No,  there  is  little  of  these,”  said  the  curate; 
“and  it  is  very  healthy,  I have  always  understood: 
the  common  is  what  my  girls  love.  But  I don’t  see 
them  coming.”  He  arched  his  hand  over  his  eyes 
as  a defence  against  the  light,  as  he  looked  along 
the  road  for  his  daughters.  Mr.  St.  John  had  quite 
recovered  himself.  I don’t  think  that  even  the 
name  of  Wilkins  would  have  discouraged  him  now. 
In  the  warm  and  balmy  air  he  took  off  his  hat, 
holding  up  his  venerable  bare  head  to  the  sky.  It 
was  a head  which  might  have  served  for  that  of  an 
old  saint.  His  white  hair  was  still  thick  and  abun- 
dant, his  eyes  full  of  soft  light,  his  expression  tran- 
quil as  the  evening.  “I  have  come  here  in  many 
troubles,”  he  said,  “ and  I have  always  been  refreshed. 
I don’t  pretend  to  know  much  about  art,  Mr.  Mild- 
may, but  nature  is  always  soothing.  Greenness 
cools  the  eyes  whether  it  is  study  or  tears  that  have 
fevered  them.  But  I wonder  what  has  become  of 
the  girls.” 


IN  THE  PARISH. 


141 

Mildmay  was  charmed  by  the  meditative  turn 
his  companion’s  remarks  had  taken,  but  the  ques- 
tion about  the  girls  embarrassed  him. 

“I  am  afraid,”  he  said,  ‘‘that  my  intrusion  has 
perhaps  given  Miss  St.  John  some  trouble.” 

“No;  there  is  the  servant,  you  know,  a very 
good  sort  of  girl,  and  Cicely  is  like  her  dear  mother 
— never  taken  by  surprise.  If  you  are  here  as  long 
as  I have  been  you  will  know  how  pleasant  it  is  to 
see  a new  face.  We  country  folks  rust:  we  fall 
into  a fixed  routine.  I myself,  see,  was  about  to 
take  this  little  byway  unconsciously,  a path  I often 
take,  forgetting  there  was  any  one  with  me ” 

The  curate  looked  wistfully  along  the  thread  of 
path;  it  had  been  worn  by  his  own  feet,  and  he 
seldom  concluded  his  evening  walk  otherwise. 
Mildmay  followed  the  narrow  line  with  his  eyes. 

“It  leads  to  the  churchyard,”  he  said.  “I  like  a 
country  churchyard.  May  we  go  there  before  we 
go  in?  What  a pity  the  church  is  so  new!  and  this 
part  of  Berkshire  is  rich  in  old  churches,  I under- 
stand?” 

“It  is  in  good  repair,  and  much  more  whole- 
some than  the  old  ones,”  said  Mr.  St.  John.  “They 
may  be  more  picturesque.  Here  you  can  see  into 
the  rectory  garden,  the  ground  slopes  so  much;  the 
church  is  very  much  higher  than  the  common.  It 
used  to  be  sweet  to  me  looking  back  at  the  lights 

in  the  girls’  rooms,  when  I stood there  they 

are  on  the  lawn  now,  Mr.  Mildmay.  They  have  not 
gone  out,  after  all.” 

Mildmay,  looking  down  from  the  churchyard 


142 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


path,  felt  that  it  was  dishonourable  to  spy  upon  the 
two  girls  unaware  of  his  scrutiny,  whom  he  could 
just  see  within  the  wall  of  the  rectory  garden;  but 
he  could  not  help  feeling  that  this  was  more  and 
more  like  a drama  which  was  being  played  before 
him.  He  followed  Mr.  St.  John  along  the  narrow 
path  to  the  little  white  stile  which  admitted  to  the 
churchyard.  The  curate  ceased  his  tranquil  talk 
as  they  entered  that  inclosure.  He  turned  mechani- 
cally as  it  seemed,  to  the  left  hand,  and  went  round 
to  a white  cross  upon  a grave  turned  towards  the 
common.  It  was  of  common  stone,  grey  with  years. 
The  curate  took  off  his  hat  again,  and  stood  by  it 
quite  simply  and  calmly. 

“It  used  to  be  sweet  to  me,  standing  here  to 
see  the  lights  in  the  girls’  rooms,”  he  said  once 
more.  The  soft  tranquillity  of  his  tone  suited  the 
still  twilight,  the  pensive  silent  plain.  It  was  too 
still  for  sorrow,  nor  was  there  any  touch  of  unhap- 
piness in  the  gentle  voice.  Young  Mildmay  un- 
covered too,  and  stood  wondering,  reverent,  with  a 
swell  of  sympathy  in  his  heart.  Some  men  would 
have  felt  with  anguish  the  unspeakable  separation 
between  the  mother  under  the  dews  and  the  twinkle 
of  the  lights  in  her  children’s  windows;  but  Mr.  St. 
John  was  not  of  that  mind.  Yet,  somehow,  to  have 
this  stranger  here  made  his  loss  seem  fresher  to 
him.  “Cicely  is  very  like  her  mother,”  he  said,  and 
touched  the  cross  softly  with  his  hand  as  if  caress- 
ing it,  and  turned  away.  Mr.  Mildmay  could  see 
that  there  were  two  paths  up  the  mound  to  the 
white  gate,  and  the  meaning  of  them  struck  him 


IN  THE  PARISH. 


143 


vividly — one  was  that  by  which  they  had  just  come 
from  the  common,  the  other  led  down  straight  to 
the  rectory.  His  heart  was  more  touched  than  I 
can  say,  by  the  gentle  fidelity,  consoled  and  calm, 
yet  always  tender,  which  had  worn  that  double  line 
through  the  grass. 

Mr.  St.  John,  however,  made  a hesitating  pause 
at  a corner  before  he  took  this  second  way  home. 
“My  other  poor  wife,  poor  Mrs.  St.  John,  lies 
there;  but  that  I can  show  you  to-morrow,’^  he  said, 
in  his  gentle  unchanged  voice,  and  quietly  went  on 
to  the  gate,  leading  the  way.  “Supper  will  be 
ready,”  the  curate  continued,  when  they  emerged 
again  upon  the  turf.  “We  live  a very  simple 
primitive  life  here;  our  meals  are  not  arranged 
quite  as  yours  are,  but  it  comes  to  the  same  thing. 
In  short,  whatever  seeming  differences  there  are, 
all  ways  of  living  come  to  much  the  same  thing.” 

Did  they  so?  Mr.  St.  John’s  meaning  was  of  the 
simplest.  He  meant  that  whether  you  called  your 
latest  meal  dinner  or  supper  did  not  matter  much; 
but  his  companion  gave  it  a broader  sense.  With 
a jar  of  laughter  in  his  mind  that  broke  up  the 
reverential  respect  of  the  previous  moment,  he  fol- 
lowed his  simple  host  into  the  house,  which  by- 
and-by  was  to  be  his  own  house.  Poor  Mrs.  St. 
John,  who  was  not  the  mother  of  the  girls;  whose 
grave  could  be  shown  to-morrow;  for  whose  sake 
these  paths  had  not  been  worn  across  the  grass; 
the  stranger  gave  her  her  little  meed  of  human 
notice  in  that  smothered  laugh.  Poor  Miss  Brown! 

The  supper  was  homely  enough  — cold  meat 


144 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


and  salad,  and  bread  and  cheese  and  jam — and 
would  have  been  cheerful  and  pleasant,  Mr.  Mild- 
may  thought,  but  for  the  absorbed  looks  of  that 
elder  daughter,  who  was  still  somewhat  unfriendly 
to  him.  He  went  upstairs  to  his  room,  where  a 
large  mahogany  four-post  bed,  with  heavy  moreen 
hangings,  awaited  him,  before  the  night  was  very 
far  advanced.  When  he  had  been  there  for  a short 
time,  he  saw  that  his  door  was  not  shut,  and  went 
to  close  it.  As  he  did  so,  he  caught  a glimpse  of 
Cicely  going  downstairs.  She  had  retired  some 
time  before  he  did,  so  that  her  reappearance  struck 
him  all  the  more;  and  she  was  quite  unconscious 
that  he  saw  her.  She  carried  a candle  in  one 
hand,  and  a pile  of  tradesmen’s  books  in  the  other. 
She  was  pale,  her  look  fixed,  her  nostrils  a little 
dilated,  like  some  one  going  to  a painful  task,  he 
thought.  As  she  moved  down  the  dark  staircase, 
a speck  of  light,  with  her  candle  shining  on  the 
whiteness  of  her  face  and  dress,  the  walls,  by  which 
she  flitted,  looked  more  and  more  like  the  scenery 
of  a drama  to  the  young  man.  If  they  only  would 
have  opened,  as  in  the  real  theatre,  and  shown  him 
where  she  was  going,  what  she  was  about  to  do! 
But  this  was  very  mean  curiosity  on  Mr.  Mildmay’s 
part.  He  shut  his  door  humbly,  that  she  might 
not  be  disturbed  by  the  sound,  and  after  a while 
went  meekly  to  bed,  trying  to  say  to  himself  that 
he  had  no  right  to  pry  into  the  business  of  these 
good  people,  who  had  been  so  kind  to  him;  though, 
indeed,  she  had  not  been  kind  to  him,  he  reflected, 
by  way  of  lessening  his  own  sense  of  guilt.  He 


IN  THE  PARISH. 


145 


heard  subdued  voices  below  for  some  time  after, 
and  wished  more  than  ever  that  the  scenery  would 
open,  and  reveal  this  scene  to  him;  but  the  sub- 
stantial walls  stood  fast,  and  the  moreen  curtains 
hung  grimly  about  him,  shutting  out  everything. 
There  was  no  compromise  about  the  furniture  at 
the  rectory;  the  pillared  bedposts  stood  square,  and 
stern,  and  strong,  till  poor  Mildmay,  dozing  within 
them  in  the  warm  August  night,  thought  them  Sam- 
son^s  pillars  in  the  house  of  Dagon,  or  the  pillars 
of  the  earth. 

Cicely  went  down  to  her  father  very  resolute 
with  her  books.  She  had  intended  to  say  very 
little  to  him,  but  he  had  exasperated  her,  and  she 
felt  that  she  could  not  let  him  off.  But  her  courage 
sank  a little  when  she  got  into  the  study,  and  saw 
his  white  head  in  the  light  of  the  solitary  candle. 
There  were  two  candles  on  the  table,  but  faithful 
to  an  old  frugal  habit,  Mr.  St.  John  had  put  out 
one  of  them  when  his  guest  left  him.  The  room 
was  good-sized,  and  full  of  huge  mahogany  book- 
cases; and  as  the  table  was  at  one  end  of  it,  there 
is  no  telling  how  full  of  gloom  it  was.  One  of  the 
windows  was  open,  and  a great  solid  piece  of  dark- 
ness seemed  to  have  taken  its  place,  and  to  be 
pouring  in.  Mr.  St.  John  was  looking  over  some 
old  sermons,  bending  his  head  over  the  papers, 
with  spectacles  upon  his  nose,  which  he  took  off 
when  Cicely  came  in.  He  did  not  usually  sit  up 
so  long,  and  he  was  rather  aggrieved  at  the  late 
interview  she  had  asked  for.  He  did  not  like  to 
be  disturbed  out  of  his  usual  way,  and  he  felt  that 

The  Curate  in  Charge,  10 


146  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

she  was  going  to  speak  to  him  about  Wilkins,  the 
most  painful  subject  which  could  be  suggested. 
Cicely,  too,  when  he  raised  his  head,  and  took  off 
his  spectacles,  found  the  interview  a great  deal 
more  difficult  than  in  her  excited  feelings  she  had 
supposed. 

^‘Well,  my  dear,^’  he  said  gently;  ^‘you  wanted 
to  speak  to  me.’’  He  gave  a little  shiver  when  he 
saw  the  books  in  her  hand. 

“Yes,  papa,”  she  said,  laying  them  down  on  the 
table;  and  then  there  was  a pause.  The  soft  night 
air  came  in,  and  crept  wistfully  about  the  room, 
moving  the  curtains.  When  it  approaches  mid- 
night, even  in  August,  there  is  always  something 
chill  and  mournful  in  the  night  wind. 

“I  wanted  to  speak  to  you,”  said  Cicely,  catch- 
ing her  breath  a little;  “it  was  about  the  books.  I 
don’t  know  if  you  have  looked  at  them  lately.  Oh, 
papa!  do  you  know  that  we  are — in  debt?  I don’t 
know  how  to  say  it — a great  deal  in  debt!” 

“Not  a great  deal,  my  dear,”  he  said  faintly; 
“something,  I know.  Wilkins  spoke  to  me  to-day 
— almost  before  Mr.  Mildmay.” 

“It  is  not  Wilkins  alone,”  said  Cicely  solemnly; 
“it  is  everybody.  The  butcher,  too;  and,  oh!  so 
many  little  people.  How  are  they  ever  to  be  paid? 
When  I looked  over  the  books  to-day,  not  knowing 
— Oh!  do  you  know  how  it  has  happened?  Can 
they  be  cheating?  It  is  my  only  hope.” 

“My  dear,”  said  the  curate,  faltering,  “better 
that  one  should  have  done  wrong  than  that  a great 
many  should  have  done  wrong.  Poor  Mrs.  St. 


IN  THE  PARISH. 


147 


John — nay,  I should  say  both  of  us,  Cicely;  for  I 
was  also  to  blame.  We  were  not  like  your  mother, 
my  dear;  it  all  came  natural  to  your  mother;  but 

she,  or  rather  we Mr.  St.  John’s  voice  sank 

into  an  indistinct  confusion.  He  was  too  good  to 
blame  the  poor  woman  who  was  dead,  and  he  did 
not  know  how  to  meet  the  eyes  thus  shining  upon 
him,  youthful,  inexorable,  of  Hester’s  child.  But 
even  Cicely  was  moved  by  her  father’s  wistful  looks, 
and  the  humility  of  his  tone. 

^‘If  only  one  could  see  any  way  of  paying 
them,”  she  said;  “if  even  we  had  been  staying 
here!  I had  a plan,  and  we  might  have  done  it. 
And  it  brings  it  all  so  near,  and  makes  it  so  cer- 
tain, to  see  this  man.” 

“My  love,”  said  the  curate  remonstrating,  “we 
knew  that  some  one  must  come.  It  is  not  his  fault. 
Why  should  we  be  unkind  to  him?” 

“Unkind!  Oh  papa!”  cried  Cicely  in  her  ex- 
asperation, “what  had  we  to  do  with  him?  It  was 
not  our  business  to  feast  him  and  pet  him.  But 
that  is  nothing,”  she  said,  trembling  with  excite- 
ment; “I  will  not  blame  you,  papa,  for  that  or  any- 
thing, if  only  you  will  say  now  what  you  are  going 
to  do,  or  where  you  think  we  can  go,  or  what  I 
must  say  to  these  poor  people.  We  cannot  stay 
here  and  starve,  or  till  they  put  us  in  prison — only 
tell  me  what  we  must  do.” 

“How  can  I tell  you,  Cicely,”  said  the  curate, 
“when  I do  not  know  myself?  I must  advertise  or 
something,”  he  said  helplessly.  “I  am  old,  my 
dear.  Few  people  want  a curate  of  my  age;  I sup- 

10* 


148  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

pose  it  almost  looks  like  a stigma  on  a man  to  be 
a curate  at  my  age.^^ 

‘Tapa!^^  Cicely  stopped  short  in  what  she  was 
going  to  say,  and  looked  at  him  with  strained  and 
anxious  eyes.  She  had  meant  to  assail  him  for 
still  being  a curate,  but  his  self-condemnation 
closed  the  girbs  lips,  or  rather  roused  her  in  de- 
fence. 

“Yes,”  said  Mr.  St.  John,  “you  may  say  I ought 
to  have  thought  of  that  sooner;  but  when  things 
go  on  for  a long  time  one  asks  one^s  self  why 
should  not  they  go  on  for  ever?  ‘He  said.  There 
will  be  peace  in  my  time.^  That  was  selfish  of 
Hezekiah,  my  dear,  very  selfish,  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it.  But  I dare  say  it  never  seemed  so  to 
him,  and  neither  did  it  to  me.” 

Cicely  was  utterly  overpowered  by  this;  her 
anger  and  impatience  died  out  of  her,  and  com- 
punction and  remorse  rose  in  her  heart.  “That  is 
not  the  right  way  to  look  at  it,”  she  said.  “It  is  a 
shame  that  a man  like  you  should  only  be  a 
curate — oh,  a shame  to  the  Church  and  every  one! 
Mr.  Chester,  who  never  was  here,  never  did  any- 
thing, what  right  had  he  to  be  the  rector? — and 

this  other  person ” It  was  so  necessary  for 

poor  Cicely  in  the  disturbance  of  her  mind  to  be 
angry  with  some  one  that  naturally  her  wrath  grew 
wild  and  bitter  when  she  was  free  to  pour  it  out 
upon  strangers. 

“Hush!  hush!  my  dear,”  said  the  curate,  with  a 
half  smile  at  her  vehemence;  for  indeed  he  was 


IN  THE  PARISH. 


149 


deeply  relieved  to  have  the  tide  of  indignation 
turned  away  from  himself. 

“Why  should  I hush,  papa?  It  is  your  own 
college,  you  say;  but  they  never  take  the  trouble 
to  ask  who  is  at  Brentburn,  who  has  been  taking 
the  duty,  who  has  looked  after  the  people  when  the 
rector  has  been  so  long  away.  When  people  have 
the  patronage  of  a parish  in  their  hands,  ought 
they  not  to  know  about  it?  And  how  did  they 
dare,  how  did  they  venture,  to  give  it  to  anybody 
but  you?'^ 

“You  don’t  understand,”  said  Mr.  St.  John. 
“The  livings  are  given  to  the  Fellows,  Cicely,  to 
people  who  have  distinguished  themselves.  The 
dons  have  no  right  to  alienate  a living,  as  it  were, 
to  put  it  away  from  those  who  have  a right  to  it, 
and  give  it  to  one  like  me.” 

“What  have  they  distinguished  themselves  in, 
papa?  In  Latin  and  Greek — which  will  do  a great 
deal  in  the  parish,  don’t  you  think?  whereas  you 

have  distinguished  yourself  in  Brentburn ” 

“I  have  not  done  very  much,  my  dear,”  said 
the  curate,  shaking  his  head. 

“You  have  done  all  that  has  been  done,  papa; 
what  are  those  college  people  worth?  This  fine 
gentleman!”  cried  Cicely,  with  scorn.  (I  wonder 
poor  Mildmay  did  not  feel  himself  shrink  even 
within  his  four  pillars  and  moreen  curtains.)  “He 
knows  about  art  if  you  please,  and  shudders  at  the 
sight  of  Mr.  Chester’s  mahogany.  Poor  old  things,” 
the  girl  cried,  turning  round  to  look  at  the  old 


I 50  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

bookcases  with  her  eyes  streaming,  ‘‘I  only  know 
how  fond  I am  of  them  now!’' 

I cannot  tell  how  thankful  her  father  was  that 
the  conversation  had  taken  this  turn.  He  too  felt 
tenderly  towards  the  old  unlovely  walls  which  had 
sheltered  him  so  long,  and  in  the  circumstances  he 
felt  it  no  harm  to  speak  a little  more  strongly  than 
he  felt.  He  looked  round  upon  the  ghostly  room 
so  dark  in  all  its  corners.  “A  great  many  things 
have  happened  to  us  here,”  he  said;  ‘Hhis  was  the 
first  room  we  sat  in,  your  mother  and  I.  What 
changes  it  has  seen!  I don’t  know  how  to  make 
up  my  mind  to  leave  it.” 

This  brought  back  the  girl  to  the  original 
question.  “But  now,”  she  said,  drying  her  eyes, 
“there  is  no  choice — we  must  leave  it.  I suppose 
that  is  what  this  Mr.  Mildmay  has  really  come 
about?  He  will  give  you  some  little  time,  I sup- 
pose. But  papa,  papa!”  said  Cicely,  with  a stamp 
of  her  foot  to  emphasize  her  words,  “don’t  you  see 
you  must  decide  something — make  up  your  mind 
to  something?  Hoping  on  till  the  last  day  will  do 
no  good  to  any  one.  And  to  think  we  should  be 
so  deep  in  debt!  Oh,  papa,  what  are  we  to  do?” 

“My  dear,  do  not  be  hard  upon  me,”  said  poor 
St.  John;  “I  acknowledge,  indeed,  that  it  was  my 
fault.” 

“It  was  not  your  fault — but  I don’t  blame  any- 
body. There  was  illness  and  weakness,  and  some 
people  can  and  some  people  can’t,”  said  Cicely, 
with  that  mercy  and  toleration  which  are  always,  I 
fear,  more  or  less,  the  offspring  of  contempt.  “Let 


IN  THE  PARISH. 


I5I 

US  not  go  back  upon  that — but,  oh,  tell  me,  what 
is  to  be  done  now?’^ 

Mr.  St.  John  shook  his  venerable  head  pite- 
ously. ‘^What  do  you  think.  Cicely  he  said. 

This  was  all  she  could  get  from  him;  and,  oh, 
how  glad  he  was  when  he  was  permitted  to  go  to 
bed,  and  be  done  with  it!  He  could  not  tell  what 
to  do — anything  he  had  ever  done  had  been  done 
for  him  (if  it  is  not  a bull  to  say  so),  and  he 
had  no  more  idea  what  independent  step  to  take 
in  this  emergency,  than  one  of  the  little  boys  had, 
to  whose  room  he  paid  a half-surreptitious  visit  on 
his  way  to  his  own.  Poor  little  souls!  they  were 
surreptitious  altogether;  even  their  father  felt  they 
had  no  right  to  be  there  in  his  daughters’  way.  He 
went  in,  shading  his  candle  with  his  hand,  not  to 
disturb  the  slumbers  of  Annie,  the  little  nursemaid, 
and  approached  the  two  little  cots  on  tip-toe,  and 
looked  at  the  two  little  white  faces  on  the  pillows. 
*‘Poor  little  things,”  he  said  to  himself.  Miss 
Brown  was  well  out  of  it;  she  had  escaped  all  this 
trouble,  and  could  not  be  called  to  account,  either 
for  the  babies,  or  those  debts,  which  thus  rose  up 
against  her  in  judgment.  A dim  giddiness  of 
despair  had  made  Mr.  St.  John’s  head  swim  while 
his  daughter  was  questioning  him;  but  now  that 
the  pressure  was  removed  he  was  relieved.  He 
sighed  softly  as  he  left  the  subject  altogether,  and 
said  his  prayers,  and  slept  soundly  enough.  Neither 
the  debts  nor  the  babies  weighed  upon  him — at 
least  ‘‘no  more  than  reason;”  he  was  quite  able  to 
sleep  and  to  forget. 


152 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


When  Mr.  Mildmay  came  downstairs  next  morn- 
ing, and  looked  in  at  the  open  door  of  the  dining- 
room, he  saw  Cicely  ^daying  the  cloth’’  there,  put- 
ting down  the  white  cups  and  saucers,  and  pre- 
paring the  breakfast-table  with  her  own  hands.  He 
was  so  much  surprised  at  this,  that  he  withdrew 
hastily,  before  she  perceived  him,  with  an  uneasy 
sense  that  she  might  not  like  to  be  caught  in  such 
an  occupation,  and  went  to  the  garden,  where,  how- 
ever, he  could  still  see  her  through  the  open  win- 
dows. He  was  not  used  to  anything  of  the  kind, 
and  it  surprised  him  much.  But  when  he  got  out- 
side he  began  to  reflect,  why  should  she  be  ashamed 
of  it?  There  was  nothing  in  the  action  that  was 
not  graceful  or  seemly.  He  saw  her  moving  about, 
arranging  one  thing  after  another,  and  the  sight 
made  somehow  a revolution  in  his  mind.  He  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  thinking  it  rather  dreadful, 
that  a man  should  expose  his  wife — a lady — to  be 
debased  into  such  ignoble  offices,  or  that  any 
gentlewoman  should  have  such  things  to  do.  This 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  seen  domestic  busi- 
ness of  a homely  kind  done  by  a lady,  and  my 
dilettante  was  utterly  annoyed  at  himself,  when  he 
found  that,  instead  of  being  hurt  and  wounded  by 
the  sight,  he  liked  it!  Terrible  confession!  He 
went  up  and  down  the  garden  walks,  pretending  to 
himself  that  he  was  enjoying  the  fresh  air  of  the 
morning,  but  actually  peeping,  spying,  at  the 
windows,  watching  Miss  St.  John  arrange  the  break- 
fast. She  had  not  seen  him,  but,  quite  uncon- 
scious of  observation,  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts. 


IN  THE  PARISH. 


153 


she  went  on  with  her  occupation.  There  were  more 
things  to  do  than  to  put  the  table  to  rights,  for 
Betsy’s  work  was  manifold,  and  did  not  admit  of 
very  careful  housemaid  work.  Mr.  Mildmay  watched 
her  for  some  time,  coming  and  going;  and  then  he 
became  aware  of  another  little  scene  which  was 
going  on  still  nearer  to  himself.  Out  from  a side 
door  came  the  two  little  boys,  hand  in  hand,  with 
their  hats  tied  on,  and  overshadowing  the  little 
pallid  faces  like  two  mushrooms.  They  were  fol- 
lowed out  by  their  little  nurse,  who  watched  their 
decorous  exit  with  approval.  ‘‘Now  take  your  walk, 
till  I come  and  fetch  you,”  said  this  small  guardian; 
upon  which  the  two  little  urchins,  tottering,  but 
solemn,  began  a serious  promenade,  so  far  along 
the  gravel  walk,  so  far  back  again,  turning  at  each 
end  as  on  an  imaginary  quarterdeck.  The  little 
boys  tottered  now  and  then,  but  recovered  them- 
selves, and  went  on  steadily  up  and  down,  back- 
ward and  forward,  without  a break.  Mildmay  was 
fond  of  children  (so  long  as  they  did  not  bore  him), 
and  he  was  more  amused  than  he  could  say.  He 
made  a few  steps  across  the  lawn  to  meet  them, 
and  held  out  his  hands.  “Come  along  here,”  he 
said;  “come  on  the  grass.”  The  solemn  babies 
paused  and  looked  at  him,  but  were  not  to  be  be- 
guiled from  their  steady  promenade.  Their  por- 
tentous gravity  amazed  him — even  the  children 
were  mysterious  in  this  romantic  rectory.  He  went 
up  to  meet  them  on  their  next  turn. 

“Come,  little  ones,”  he  said,  “let  us  be  friends. 
What  are  your  names?” 


154 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


They  stood  and  looked  at  him  with  their  big 
blue  eyes,  holding  fast  by  each  other.  They  were 
unprepared  for  this  emergency,  as  their  father  was 
unprepared  for  the  bigger  emergency  in  which  he 
found  himself.  At  last  one  small  piping  voice  re- 
sponded '‘Harry!”  the  other  instinctively  began  to 
suck  his  thumb. 

"Harry — and  what  else? — come,  tell  me,”  said 
the  new  rector;  "you  are  not  both  Harry.”  He 
stood  looking  at  them,  and  they  stood  and  looked 
at  him;  and  the  two  babies,  three  years  old,  under- 
stood as  much  about  that  quintessence  of  Oxford, 
and  education  and  culture,  as  he  did  of  them;  they 
gazed  at  him  with  their  four  blue  eyes  exactly  in  a 
row.  "Come,  speak,”  he  said,  laughing;  "you  have 
lost  your  tongues.”  This  reproach  roused  Charlie, 
who  took  his  thumb  out  of  his  mouth  and  put  his 
whole  hand  in,  to  search  for  the  tongue  which  was 
not  lost. 

The  sound  of  Mildmay^s  voice  roused  Cicely. 
She  came  to  the  window,  and  looking  out  saw  him 
there,  standing  in  front  of  the  children.  Many 
schemes  had  been  throbbing  in  her  head  all  night. 
She  had  not  slept  tranquilly,  like  her  father.  She 
had  been  pondering  plans  till  her  brain  felt  like 
a honeycomb,  each  cell  holding  some  active  notion. 
She  paused  a moment,  all  the  pulses  in  her  be- 
ginning to  throb,  and  looked  out  upon  the  op- 
portunity before  her.  Then,  after  a moment’s  hesi- 
tation, she  put  down  the  little  brush  she  held  in 
her  hand,  threw  up  the  window  a little  higher  and 


cicely's  appeal. 


155 


stepped  out — to  try  one  other  throw,  though  the 
game  seemed  played  out,  with  Fortune  and  Fate! 


CHAPTER  XL 

Cicely’s  Appeal. 

Cicely  St.  John  was  not  in  the  least  beautiful. 
The  chief  charm  she  had,  except  her  youthful  fresh- 
ness, was  the  air  of  life,  activity,  and  animation 
which  breathed  about  her.  Dulness,  idleness,  weari- 
ness, langour  were  almost  impossible  to  the  girl — 
impossible,  at  least,  except  for  the  moment.  To  be 
doing  something  was  a necessity  of  her  nature,  and 
she  did  that  something  so  heartily,  that  there  was 
nothing  irritating  in  her  activity.  Life  (but  for 
bills  and  debts,  and  the  inaction  of  others)  was  a 
pleasure  to  her.  Her  perpetual  motion  was  so  easy 
and  pleasant  and  harmonious,  that  it  jarred  upon 
nobody.  When  she  came  out,  suddenly  stepping 
from  the  dining-room  window,  all  the  sweetness  of 
the  morning  seemed  to  concentrate  in  this  one 
figure,  so  bright,  so  living,  so  full  of  simple  power; 
and  this,  after  the  sombre  agitation  and  distress  in 
which  she  had  been  enveloped  on  the  previous 
night,  was  the  most  extraordinary  revelation  to  the 
stranger,  who  did  not  know  Cicely.  He  could 
scarcely  believe  it  was  the  same,  any  more  than  a 
man  could  believe  a sunshiny,  brilliant  summer 
morning  to  be  the  same  as  the  pallid,  rainy  troubled 
dawn  which  preceded  the  sunrising.  Cicely  had 
been  entirely  cast  down  in  the  evening;  every  way 


156  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

of  escape  seemed  to  have  closed  upon  her;  she 
was  in  despair.  But  the  night  had  brought  counsel, 
as  it  so  often  does;  and  to-day  she  had  risen  full 
of  plans  and  resolutions  and  hopes,  and  was  her- 
self again,  as  much  as  if  there  were  no  debts  in 
her  way,  as  if  her  father’s  position  was  as  sure  and 
stable  as  they  had  all  foolishly  thought  it.  The 
moment  she  came  into  this  little  group  in  the  gar- 
den its  character  changed.  Two  poor  little  startled 
babies  gazing  at  a man  who  understood  nothing 
about  them,  and  gazed  back  at  them  with  a wonder 
as  great  as  their  own,  without  any  possible  point 
on  which  they  could  come  into  contact:  this  is 
what  the  curious  encounter  had  been.  Mildmay, 
as  thinking  himself  much  the  most  advanced  being, 
smiled  at  the  children,  and  experienced  a certain 
amusement  in  their  bewildered,  helpless  looks;  yet 
he  was  not  a bit  wiser  in  knowledge  of  them,  in 
power  to  help  them,  in  understanding  of  their  in- 
complete natures,  than  they  were  in  respect  to  him. 
But  when  Cicely  stepped  out,  the  group  grew 
human.  Whatever  was  going  to  be  done,  whatever 
was  necessary  to  be  done,  or  said,  she  was  the  one 
capable  of  doing  or  saying.  Her  light,  firm  step 
rang  on  the  gravel  with  a meaning  in  it;  she  com- 
prehended both  the  previously  helpless  sides  of  the 
question,  and  made  them  into  a whole.  Her  very 
appearance  had  brightness  and  relief  in  it.  The 
children  (as  was  natural  and  proper)  were  swathed 
in  black  woollen  frocks,  trimmed  with  crape,  and 
looked  under  their  black  hats  like  two  little  black 
mushrooms,  with  their  heads  tilted  back.  Cicely, 


cicely’s  appeal. 


157 


too,  possessed  decorous  mourning  for  poor  Mrs. 
St.  John;  but  at  home,  ill  the  morning,  Mab  and 
she  considered  it  sufficient  in  the  circumstances  to 
wear  black  and  white  prints,  in  which  white  pre- 
dominated, with  black  ribbons;  so  that  her  very 
appearance  agreed  with  the  sunshine.  May  would 
have  suited  her  perhaps  better  than  August,  but 
still  she  was  like  the  morning,  ready  for  whatever 
day  might  bring.  Mildmay  saluted  her  with  a 
curious  sensation  of  surprise  and  pleasure;  for  this 
was  the  one,  he  perceived  at  once,  who  had  looked 
at  him  with  so  much  hostility — and  the  change  in 
her  was  very  agreeable.  Even  the  children  were 
moved  a little.  Charley’s  mouth  widened  over  his 
thumb  with  a feeble  smile,  and  Harry  took  his  gaze 
from  Mildmay  to  fix  it  upon  her,  and  murmured 
‘‘Zat's  Cicely,”  getting  over  her  name  with  a run, 
and  feeling  that  he  had  achieved  a triumph.  Little 
Annie,  the  nursemaid,  however,  who  was  jealous  of 
the  sisters,  appeared  at  this  moment,  and  led  her 
charges  away. 

‘‘Funny  little  souls!”  Mildmay  said,  looking 
after  them;  then  fearing  he  might  have  offended  his 
hostess,  and  run  the  risk  of  driving  her  back  into 
her  former  hostility,  he  said  something  hastily  about 
the  garden,  which,  of  course,  was  the  safest  thing 
to  do. 

“Yes,  it  is  a nice  garden,”  said  Cicely;  “at 
least,  you  will  be  able  to  make  it  very  nice.  We 
have  never  taken  enough  trouble  with  it,  or  spent 
enough  money  upon  it,  which  means  the  same 


158  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

thing.  You  are  very  fond  of  the  country,  Mr.  Mild- 
may?^’ 

“Am  1?’^  he  said.  “I  really  did  not  know.’’ 

“Of  country  amusements,  then — riding,  and 
that  sort  of  thing?  We  are  quite  near  the  race- 
ground,  and  this,  I believe,  is  a very  good  hunting 
country.” 

“But  these  are  not  clerical  amusements,  are 
they?”  he  said,  laughing;  “not  the  things  one  would 
choose  a parish  for?” 

“No;  certainly  papa  takes  no  interest  in  them: 
but  then  he  is  old;  he  does  not  care  for  amuse- 
ment at  all.” 

“And  why  should  you  think  amusement  is  my 
great  object?  Do  I look  so  utterly  frivolous?” 
said  Mildmay,  piqued. 

“Nay,”  said  Cicely,  “I  don’t  know  you  well 
enough  to  tell  how  you  look.  I only  thought  per- 
haps you  had  some  reason  for  choosing  Brentburn 
out  of  all  the  world;  perhaps  love  of  the  country, 
as  I said;  or  love  for — something.  It  could  not  be 
croquet — which  is  the  chief  thing  in  summer — for 
that  you  could  have  anywhere,”  she  added,  with  a 
nervous  little  laugh. 

“I  hope.  Miss  St.  John,  there  are  other  mo- 
tives-^  ” 

“Oh  yes,  many  others.  You  mir^ht  be  going  to 
be  married,  which  people  say  is  a very  common 
reason;  but  indeed  you  must  not  think  I am  prying. 
It  was  only — curiosity.  If  you  had  not  some  ob- 
ject,” said  Cicely,  looking  at  him  with  a wistful 
glance,  “you  would  never  leave  Oxford,  where  there 


cicely’s  appeal. 


159 


is  society  and  books  and  everything  any  one  can 
desire,  to  come  here.” 

‘‘You  think  that  is  everything  any  one  could 
desire?”  he  said  smiling,  with  a flattered  sense  of 
his  superiority — having  found  all  these  desirable 
things  too  little  to  content  him — over  this  inex- 
perienced creature.  “But,  Miss  St.  John,  you  forget 
the  only  motive  worth  discussing.  There  is  a great 
deal  that  is  very  pleasant  in  Oxford — society,  as 
you  say,  and  books,  and  art,  and  much  besides; 
but  I am  of  no  use  to  any  one  there.  All  the  other 
people  are  just  as  well  educated,  as  well  off,  as 
good,  or  better  than  I am.  I live  only  to  enjoy 
myself.  Now,  one  wants  more  than  that.  Work, 
something  to  exercise  one’s  highest  faculties.  I 
want  to  do  something  for  my  fellow-creatures;  to 
be  of  a little  use.  There  must  be  much  to  do, 
much  to  improve,  much  to  amend  in  a parish  like 
this ” 

A rapid  flush  of  colour  came  to  Cicely’s  face. 
“To  improve  and  amend!”  she  said  quickly.  “Ah! 
you  speak  at  your  ease,  Mr.  Mildmay — in  a parish 
where  papa  has  been  working  for  twenty  years!” 

Mildmay  gave  her  a startled,  wondering  look. 
To  be  thus  interrupted  while  you  are  riding,  full 
tilt,  your  favourite  hobby,  is  very  confusing.  He 
scarcely  took  in  the  meaning  of  the  words  “working 
for  twenty  years.” 

“Twenty  years — all  my  lifetime  and  more;  and 
you  think  you  can  mend  it  all  at  once  like  an  old 
shoe!”  cried  Cicely,  her  cheeks  flaming.  Then  she 


l6o  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

said,  subduing  herself,  ‘‘I  beg  your  pardon.  What 
you  say  is  quite  right,  I know.” 

But  by  this  time  her  words  began  to  take  their 
proper  meaning  to  his  mind.  “Has  Mr.  St.  John 
been  here  so  long?”  he  said.  “I  hope  you  don^t 
think  I undervalue  his  work.  I am  sure  it  must 
have  been  better  than  anything  I with  my  inex- 
perience can  do;  but  yet ” 

“Ah!  you  will  learn;  you  are  young;  and  we 
always  think  we  can  do  better  than  the  old  people. 
I do  myself  often,”  said  Cicely,  under  her  breath. 

“I  did  not  mean  anything  so  presumptuous,” 
he  said;  “indeed,  I did  not  know.  I thought  of 
myself,  as  one  does  so  often  without  being  aware — 
I hope  you  will  not  form  a bad  opinion  of  me. 
Miss  St.  John.  I accepted  the  living  for  the  sake 
of  the  work,  not  for  any  smaller  motive.  Books 
and  society  are  not  life.  It  seemed  to  me  that  to 
instruct  one’s  fellow- creatures  so  far  as  one  can,  to 
help  them  as  far  as  one  can,  to  bring  a higher  ideal 
into  their  existence ” 

Cicely  was  bewildered  by  this  manner  of  speech. 
She  did  not  quite  understand  it.  No  one  had  ever 
spoken  to  her  of  a high  ideal;  a great  deal  had  been 
said  to  her  one  time  and  another  about  doing  her 
duty,  but  nothing  of  this.  She  was  dazzled,  and 
yet  half  contemptuous,  as  ignorance  so  often  is. 
“A  high  ideal  for  the  poor  folk  in  the  village,  and 
Wilkins  the  grocer,  and  old  Mrs.  Joel  with  her 
pigs?”  she  cried  mocking;  yet  while  she  said  it,  she 
blushed  for  herself. 

Mildmay  blushed  too.  He  was  young  enough 


cicely’s  appeal. 


i6i 


to  be  very  sensitive  to  ridicule,  and  to  know  that 
high  ideals  should  not  be  rashly  spoken  of  except 
to  sympathetic  souls.  “Why  not,”  he  said,  “for  them 
as  well  as  for  others?”  then  stopped  between  dis- 
appointment and  offence. 

“Ah!”  said  Cicely,  “you  don’t  know  the  village 
people.  If  you  spoke  to  them  of  high  ideals,  they 
would  only  open  their  mouths  and  stare.  If  it  was 
something  to  make  a little  money  by,  poor  souls! 
or  to  get  new  boots  for  their  children,  or  even  to 
fatten  the  pigs.  Now  you  are  disgusted,  Mr.  Mild- 
may;  but  you  don’t  know  how  poor  the  people  are, 
and  how  little  time  they  have  for  anything  but  just 
what  is  indispensable  for  living.”  As  she  said  this, 
Cicely’s  eyes  grew  wistful,  and  filled  with  moisture. 
The  young  man  thought  it  was  an  angelical  pity 
for  the  poverty  and  sufferings  of  others;  but  I fear 
the  girl  was  at  that  moment  thinking  of  what  lay 
before  herself. 

“Miss  St.  John,”  he  said,  “when  you  feel  for 
them  so  deeply,  you  must  sympathize  with  me  too. 
The  harder  life  is,  has  it  not  the  more  need  of  some 
clear  perception  of  all  the  higher  meanings  in  it? 
If  it  is  worth  while  to  be  a clergyman  at  all,  this  is 
the  use,  it  seems  to  me,  to  which  we  should  put 
ourselves;  and  for  that  reason ” 

“You  are  coming  to  Brentburn!”  cried  Cicely. 
The  tears  disappeared  from  her  eyes,  dried  by  the 
flush  of  girlish  impatience  and  indignation  that 
followed.  “As  if  they  were  all  heathens;  as  if  no 
one  else  had  ever  taught  them — and  spent  his  time 
and  strength  for  them!  Out  of  your  Latin  and 

The  Curate  in  Charge. 


II 


i62 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


Greek,  and  your  philosophy,  and  your  art,  and  all 
those  fine  things,  you  are  coming  to  set  a high  ideal 
before  poor  Sally  Gillows,  whose  husband  beats 
her,  and  the  Hodges,  with  their  hundreds  of  chil- 
dren, and  the  hard  farmers  and  the  hard  shop- 
keepers that  grind  the  others  to  the  ground.  Well!’’ 
she  said,  coming  rapidly  down  from  this  indignant 
height  to  a half  disdainful  calm,  ^‘I  hope  you  will 
find  it  answer,  Mr.  Mildmay.  Perhaps  it  will  do 
better  than  papa’s  system.  He  has  only  told  them 
to  try  and  do  their  best,  poor  souls!  to  put  up  with 
their  troubles  as  well  as  they  could,  and  to  hope 
that  some  time  or  other  God  would  send  them  some- 
thing better  either  in  this  world  or  another.  I don’t 
think  papa’s  way  has  been  very  successful,  after 
all,”  said  Cicely,  with  a faint  laugh;  “perhaps  yours 
may  be  the  best.” 

“I  think  you  do  me  injustice,”  said  Mildmay, 
feeling  the  attack  so  unprovoked  that  he  could 
afford  to  be  magnanimous.  “I  have  never  thought 
of  setting  up  my  way  in  opposition  to  Mr.  St.John’s 
way.  Pray  do  not  think  so.  Indeed,  I did  not 
know,  and  could  not  think ” 

“Of  papa  at  all!”  cried  Cicely,  interrupting  him 
as  usual.  “Why  should  you?  No,  no,  it  was  not 
you  who  ought  to  have  thought  of  him.  You  never 
heard  his  name  before,  I suppose.  No  one  could 
expect  it  of  you.” 

“And  if  I have  entered  into  this  question,”  he 
continued,  “it  was  to  show  you  that  I had  not  at 
least  mere  petty  personal  motives.” 


ClCELY^S  APPEAL. 


163 

‘^Oh,  I beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Mildmay.  I had 
no  right  to  inquire  into  your  motives  at  all.” 

Mildmay  was  not  vain;  but  he  was  a young  man, 
and  this  was  a young  woman  by  his  side,  and  it 
was  she  who  had  begun  a conversation  much  too 
personal  for  so  slight  an  acquaintance.  When  he 
thought  of  it,  it  was  scarcely  possible  to  avoid  a 
touch  of  amiable  complacency  in  the  evident  inter- 
est he  had  excited.  “Nay,”  he  said,  with  that  smile 
of  gratified  vanity  which  is  always  irritating  to  a 
woman,  “your  interest  in  them  can  be  nothing  but 
flattering  to  me — though  perhaps  I may  have  a dif- 
ficulty in  understanding — ” 

“Why,  I am  so  much  interested!  Mr.  Mildmay!” 
cried  Cicely,  with  her  eyes  flashing,  “don’t  you 
think  if  any  one  came  to  you  to  take  your  place, 
to  turn  you  out  of  your  home,  to  banish  you  from 
everything  you  have  ever  known  or  cared  for,  and 
send  you  desolate  into  the  world — don’t  you  think 
you  would  be  interested  too?  Don’t  you  think  you 
would  wonder  over  him,  and  try  to  find  out  what 
he  meant,  and  why  this  thing  was  going  to  be  done, 
and  why  — oh,  what  am  I saying?”  cried  Cicely, 
stopping  short  suddenly,  and  casting  a terrified 
look  at  him.  “I  must  be  going  out  of  my  senses. 
It  is  not  that,  it  is  not  that  I mean!” 

Poor  Mildmay  looked  at  her  aghast.  The  flash 
of  her  eyes,  the  energy  of  her  words,  the  sudden 
change  to  paleness  and  horror  when  she  saw  how 
far  she  had  gone,  made  every  syllable  she  uttered 
so  real,  that  to  pass  it  over  as  a mere  ebullition  of 
girlish  temper  or  feeling  was  impossible;  and  there 

u* 


164 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


was  something  in  this  sudden  torrent  of  reproach — 
which,  bitter  as  it  was,  implied  nothing  like  per- 
sonal, intentional  wrong  on  his  part — which  softened 
as  well  as  appalled  him.  The  very  denunciation 
was  an  appeal.  He  stood  thunderstruck,  looking 
at  her,  but  not  with  any  resentment  in  his  eyes. 
“Miss  St.  John,”  he  said,  almost  tremulously,  “I 
don't  understand.  This  is  all  strange — all  new  to 
me.” 

“Forget  it,”  she  said  hastily.  “Forgive  me,  Mr. 
Mildmay,  when  I ask  your  pardon!  I did  not 
think  what  I was  saying.  Oh,  don't  think  of  it  any 
more!” 

“There  is  nothing  to  forgive,”  he  said;  “but 
you  will  tell  me  more?  Indeed  I am  not  angry 
— how  could  I be  angry? — but  most  anxious  to 
know.” 

“Cicely,”  said  the  curate's  gentle  voice  from  the 
window,  “it  is  time  for  prayers,  and  we  are  all 
waiting  for  you.  Come  in,  my  dear.”  Mr.  St.  John 
stood  looking  out  with  a large  prayer-book  in  his 
hand.  His  tall  figure,  with  a slight  wavering  of 
constitutional  feebleness  and  age  in  it,  filled  up  one 
side  of  the  window,  and  at  his  feet  stood  the  two 
babies,  side  by  side  as  usual,  their  hats  taken  off, 
and  little  white  pinafores  put  on  over  their  black 
frocks,  looking  out  with  round  blue  eyes.  There 
was  no  agitation  about  that  placid  group.  The 
little  boys  were  almost  too  passive  to  wonder,  and 
it  had  not  occurred  to  Mr.  St.  John  as  possible  that 
anything  calculated  to  ruffle  the  countenance  or 
the  mind  could  have  been  talked  of  between  his 


cicely’s  appeal. 


165 

daughter  and  his  guest.  He  went  in  when  he  had 
called  them,  and  took  his  seat  at  his  usual  table. 
Betsy  and  Annie  stood  by  the  great  sideboard  wait- 
ing for  the  family  devotions,  which  Betsy,  at  least, 
having  much  to  do,  was  somewhat  impatient  of; 
and  Mab  was  making  the  tea,  in  order  that  it  might 
be  “drawn”  by  the  time  that  prayers  were  over. 
The  aspect  of  everything  was  so  absolutely  peace- 
ful, that  when  Mr.  Mildmay  stepped  into  the  room 
he  could  not  but  look  at  Cicely  with  a question  in 
his  eyes.  She,  her  face  flushed  and  her  mouth 
quivering,  avoided  his  eye,  and  stole  away  to  her 
place  at  the  breakfast-table  behind.  Mildmay,  I am 
afraid,  got  little  benefit  by  Mr.  St.  John’s  prayer. 
He  could  not  even  hear  it  for  thinking.  Was  this 
true?  and  if  it  was  true,  what  must  he  do?  A per- 
fect tempest  raged  in  the  new  rector’s  bosom,  while 
the  old  curate  read  so  calmly,  unmoved  by  anything 
but  the  mild  every-day  devotion  which  was  habitual 
to  him.  Secular  things  did  not  interfere  with  sacred 
in  the  old  man’s  gentle  soul,  though  they  might 
well  have  done  so.  Heaven  knows,  had  human  ne- 
cessities anything  to  do  with  human  character. 
And  when  they  rose  from  their  knees,  and  took 
their  places  round  the  breakfast-table,  Mildmay’s 
sensations  became  more  uncomfortable  still.  The 
girl  who  had  denounced  him  as  about  to  drive  her 
from  her  home,  made  tea  for  him,  and  asked  him 
if  he  took  cream  and  sugar.  The  old  man  whom 
he  was  about  to  supplant  placed  a chair  for  him, 
and  bade  him  take  his  place  with  genial  kindness. 
Mr.  Mildmay  had  been  in  the  habit  for  the  greater 


i66 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


part  of  his  life  of  thinking  rather  well  of  himself; 
and  it  is  inconceivable  how  unpleasant  it  is  when  a 
man  accustomed  to  this  view  of  the  subject,  feels 
himself  suddenly  as  small  and  pitiful  as  he  did  now. 
Mr.  St.  John  had  some  letters,  which  he  read  slowly 
as  he  ate  his  egg,  and  Mabel  also  had  one,  which 
occupied  her.  Only  Cicely  and  the  stranger,  the 
two  who  were  not  at  ease  with  each  other,  were 
free  to  talk,  and  I don’t  know  what  either  of  them 
could  have  found  to  say. 

The  curate  looked  up  from  his  letter  with  a 
faint  sigh,  and  pushed  away  the  second  egg  which 
he  had  taken  upon  his  plate  unconsciously.  “ Cicely,” 
he  said,  “this  is  a startling  letter,  though  perhaps  I 
might  have  been  prepared  for  something  of  the 
kind.  Mr.  Chester’s  relations,  my  dear,  write  to 
say  that  they  wish  to  sell  off  the  furniture.”  Mr. 
St.  John  gave  a glance  round,  and  for  a moment 
his  heart  failed  him.  “It  is  sudden;  but  it  is  best, 
I suppose,  that  we  should  be  prepared.” 

“It  was  to  be  expected,”  said  Cicely,  with  a 
little  gasp.  She  grew  paler,  but  exerted  all  her 
power  to  keep  all  signs  of  emotion  out  of  her  face. 

“Sell  the  furniture?”  said  Mab,  with  a laugh. 
“Poor  old  things!  But  who  will  they  find  to  buy 
them?”  Mab  did  not  think  at  all  of  the  inevitable 
departure  which  must  take  place  before  Mr.  Chester’s 
mahogany  could  be  carried  away. 

“You  will  think  it  very  weak,”  said  poor  Mr. 
St.  John,  “but  I have  been  here  so  long  that  even 
the  dispersion  of  the  furniture  will  be  something  in 
the  shape  of  a trial.  It  has  seen  so  much.  Of 


cicely’s  appeal.  167 

course,  such  a grievance  is  merely  sentimental — but 
it  affects  one  more  than  many  greater  things.” 

“I  did  not  know  that  you  had  been  here  so 
long,”  said  Mildmay. 

“A  long  time — twenty  years.  That  is  a great 
slice  out  of  one’s  life,”  said  Mr.  St.  John.  (He  here 
thought  better  of  a too  hasty  determination,  and 
took  back  his  egg.)  “Almost  all  that  has  happened 
to  me  has  happened  here.  Here  I brought  your 
mother  home,  my  dears.  Cicely  is  very  like  what 
her  mother  was;  and  here  you  were  born,  and 
here ” 

“Oh,  papa,  don’t  go  on  like  that  odious  Jessica 
and  her  lover,  ‘On  such  a night!’”  said  Cicely,  with 
a forced  laugh. 

“I  did  not  mean  to  go  on,  my  dear,”  said  the 
curate,  half  aggrieved,  half  submissive;  and  he 
finished  his  egg  with  a sigh. 

“But  I wonder  very  much,”  said  Mildmay,  “if 
you  will  pardon  me  for  saying  so,  why,  when  you 
have  been  here  so  long,  you  did  not  take  some 
steps  to  secure  the  living.  You  must  like  the  place, 
or  you  would  not  have  stayed;  and  nobody  would 
have  been  appointed  over  your  head;  it  is  impos- 
sible, if  the  circumstances  had  been  known.” 

“My  dear  sir,”  said  the  curate,  with  his  kind 
smile,  “you  don’t  think  I mean  to  imply  any  grudge 
against  you?  That  would  shut  my  mouth  effectu- 
ally. No,  there  are  a great  many  reasons  why  I 
could  not  do  anything.  First,  I did  not  know  till 
a few  days  ago  that  the  rector  was  dead;  he  should 
have  sent  me  word.  Then  I have  grown  out  of 


i68 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


acquaintance  with  all  my  friends.  I have  not 
budged  out  of  Brentburn,  except  now  and  then  to 
town  for  a day,  these  twenty  years;  and,  besides 
all  this,^'  he  said,  raising  his  head  with  simple 
grandeur,  have  never  asked  anything  from  any- 
body, and  I hope  I shall  end  my  life  so.  A beggar 
for  place  or  living  I could  never  be.” 

Cicely,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him  with  the 
most  curious  mixture  of  pride,  wonder,  humiliation, 
satisfaction,  and  shame,  raised  her  head  too,  sharing 
this  little  lyrical  outburst  of  the  humble  old  man’s 
self-consequence. 

But  Mab  burst  lightly  in  from  the  midst  of  her 
letter.  “Don’t  boast  of  that,  papa,  please,”  she 
said.  “I  wish  you  had  asked  something  and  got  it. 
I am  sure  it  would  have  been  much  better  for 
Cicely  and  me.” 

“My  dear!”  said  Mr.  St.  John,  with  a half  smile, 
shaking  his  head.  It  was  all  the  reply  he  made  to 
this  light  interruption.  Then  he  resumed  the  former 
subject.  “Take  the  letter,  Cicely,  and  read  it,  and 
tell  me  what  you  think.  It  is  grievous  to  think  of 
a sale  here,  disturbing  old  associations.  We  must 
consult  afterwards  what  is  best  to  do.” 

“Papa,”  said  Cicely,  in  a low  voice  full  of  agi- 
tation, “the  best  thing  of  all  would  be  to  settle 
now,  while  Mr.  Mildmay  is  here;  to  find  out  when 
he  wishes  to  come;  and  then  there  need  be  no 
more  to  put  up  with  than  is  absolutely  necessary. 
It  is  better  to  know  exactly  when  we  must  go.” 

The  curate  turned  his  mild  eyes  to  the  young 


CICELY^S  APPEAL.  I 69 

man’s  face.  There  was  a look  of  pain  and  reluc- 
tance in  them,  but  of  submission;  and  then  he 
smiled  to  save  the  stranger’s  feelings.  ^Tt  is  hard 
upon  Mr.  Mildmay,”  he  said,  ‘To  be  asked  this,  as 
if  we  were  putting  a pistol  to  his  head;  but  you 
will  understand  that  we  wish  you  every  good,  though 
we  may  be  grieved  to  leave  our  old  home.” 

Mildmay  had  been  making  a pretence  at  eating, 
feeling  as  if  every  morsel  choked  him.  Now  he 
looked  up  flushed  and  nervous.  “I  am  afraid  I 
have  inadvertently  said  more  than  I meant,”  he 
said.  “I  don’t  think  I have  made  up  my  mind  be- 
yond the  possibility  of  change.  It  is  not  settled,  as 
you  think.” 

“Dear  me,”  said  Mr.  St.  John,  concerned,  “I 
am  very  sorry;  I hope  it  is  not  anything  you  have 
heard  here  that  has  turned  you  against  Brentburn? 
It  is  not  a model  parish,  but  it  is  no  worse  than 
other  places.  Cicely  has  been  telling  you  about 
my  troubles  with  those  cottages;  but,  indeed,  there 
is  no  parish  in  England  where  you  will  not  have 
troubles  of  some  kind — unwholesome  cottages  or 
other  things.” 

“I  said  nothing  about  the  cottages,”  said  Cicely, 
with  downcast  looks.  “I  hope  Mr.  Mildmay  does 
not  mind  anything  I said.  I say  many  things  with- 
out thinking.  It  is  very  foolish,  but  it  would  be 
more  foolish  to  pay  any  attention.  I am  sure  you 
have  often  said  so,  papa.” 

“I?”  said  the  curate,  looking  at  her  disturbed 
countenance  with  some  surprise.  “No,  I do  not 
think  you  are  one  of  the  foolish  talkers,  my  dear. 


170 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


It  is  a long  story  about  these  cottages;  and,  per- 
haps, I let  myself  be  more  worried  than  I ought.  I 
will  tell  you  all  about  it  on  the  way  to  the  Heath, 
for  I think  you  ought  to  call  on  the  Ascotts,  if  you 
will  permit  me  to  advise.  They  are  the  chief  people 
about  here.  If  you  are  ready,  perhaps  we  should 
start  soon;  and  you  will  come  back  and  have  some 
of  our  early  dinner  before  you  go?” 

‘T  am  ashamed  to  give  so  much  trouble,  to — 
receive  so  much  kindness,”  said  Mildmay,  confused. 
He  rose  when  Mr.  St.  John  did,  but  he  kept  his 
eyes  fixed  upon  Cicely,  who  kept  her  seat,  and 
would  not  look  at  him.  The  curate  had  various 
things  to  do  before  he  was  ready  to  start.  He  had 
his  scattered  memoranda  to  collect,  and  to  get  his 
note-book  from  his  study,  and  yesterday’s  news- 
paper to  carry  to  an  old  man  in  the  village,  and  a 
book  for  a sick  child,  and  I don’t  know  how  many 
trifles  besides.  “Papa’s  things  are  always  all  over 
the  house,”  Mab  cried,  running  from  one  room  to 
another  in  search  of  them.  Cicely  generally  knew 
exactly  where  to  find  all  these  properties  which  Mr. 
St.  John  searched  for  habitually  with  unfounded 
yet  unalterable  confidence  in  the  large  pockets  of 
his  long  clerical  coat.  But  Cicely  still  kept  her 
seat,  and  left  her  duties  to  her  sister,  her  mind 
being  full  of  other  things. 

“What  is  the  matter  with  Cicely?”  said  Mab, 
running  back  with  her  hands  full.  “I  have  found 
them,  but  I don’t  know  which  of  your  pockets  they 
belong  to.  This  is  the  one  for  the  note-book,  and 
this  is  the  one  for  the  newspaper;  but  what  does 


THE  PARSON^S  ROUND.  I71 

Cicely  mean,  sitting  there  like  a log,  and  leaving 
everything  to  me?” 

“Miss  St.  John,”  said  Mildmay,  in  this  interval, 
“may  I come  back  as  your  father  says?  May  we 
finish  the  conversation  we  began  this  morning?  or 
is  the  very  sight  of  me  disagreeable  to  you?  There 
are  so  many  things  I want  to  know.” 

Cicely  got  up  suddenly,  half  impatient,  half  sad. 
“We  are  always  glad  to  see  any  one  whom  papa 
asks,”  she  said;  “you  must  call  it  luncheon,  Mr. 
Mildmay,  but  to  us  it  is  dinner;  that  makes  the 
difference  between  rector  and  curate,”  she  added, 
with  a laugh. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

The  Parson’s  Round. 

How  brilliant  was  that  August  morning  when 
the  two  men  went  out!  the  sky  so  blue  and  warm 
and  full  of  sunshine,  bending  with  friendly  tender- 
ness toward  the  luxuriant  earth  which  it  embraced, 
lost  everywhere  in  soft  distances,  limits  that  were 
of  the  eye  and  not  of  the  infinite  melting  space — 
showing  through  the  foliage,  opening  out  sweet  and 
full  over  the  breezy  purpled  common.  The  red 
cottage  roofs,  with  all  their  lichens,  shone  and 
basked  in  the  light;  the  apples  reddened  moment 
by  moment,  the  yellow  corn  rustled  and  waved  in 
every  breath  of  air,  conscious  of  the  coming  sickle. 
Everything  was  at  its  fullest  blaze  of  colour;  the 
trees  more  deeply  green  than  usual,  the  sky  of 


172 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


more  profound  and  dazzling  blue,  the  heather 
purple-royal,  showing  in  its  moorland  flush  against 
the  russet-golden  fields  burning  in  the  sun  which 
gave  them  their  last  perfection  of  ripeness;  and 
even  the  flowers  in  the  gardens  blazing  their 
brightest  to  hide  the  fact  from  all  men  that  the 
sweetness  and  hope  of  the  year  were  almost  lost  in 
that  harvest  and  climax  which  touches  upon  decay, 
as  everything  does  which  is  perfect.  The  sun  was 
too  fierce  for  anything  but  red  burning  geraniums, 
and  gaudy  hollyhocks  and  rank  dahlias.  But  the 
red  old  cottages  at  Brentburn  were  of  themselves 
like  growths  of  nature,  with  all  their  stains  of  moss, 
red  and  grey  and  yellow,  relieved  and  thrown  up 
by  the  waving  greyness  of  the  willows,  that  marked 
every  spot  of  special  dampness,  and  by  the  wealthy 
green  woods  that  rolled  away  into  the  distance, 
into  the  sky.  Everything  is  musical  in  such  a 
morning;  the  very  cackle  of  the  ducks  in  that 
brown  pond — how  cool  it  looks  to  the  dusty  way- 
farer!— takes  a tone  from  the  golden  air;  the  slow 
roll  of  the  leisurely  cart  along  the  country  road; 
the  voices  from  the  cottages  calling  in  full  Berk- 
shire drawl  to  Jyain  or  Jeo  outside.  A harmonious 
world  it  seemed,  with  nothing  in  it  to  jar  or  wound; 
the  very  air  caressing  every  mother^s  son  it  met, 
blowing  about  the  rags  as  if  it  loved  them,  con- 
veying never  a chill  to  the  most  poorly  clad.  How 
different  was  that  broad  outdoor  satisfaction  and 
fulness  to  the  complainings  and  troubles  enclosed 
by  every  set  of  four  walls  in  the  parish!  Mildmay, 
as  was  natural,  knew  nothing  about  these  nor 


THE  PARSON^S  ROUND. 


173 


suspected  them;  his  spirits  rose  when  he  came  out 
into  the  summer  air — to  walk  along  the  cool  side 
of  the  road  in  the  shade,  and  watch  the  triumphant 
sunshine  blazing  over  everything,  leaving  not  an 
inch  even  of  the  common  high  road  unglorifled, 
brought  a swell  of  pleasure  to  his  heart  he  could 
not  tell  why. 

“You  must  not  come  to  a country  parish  with 
the  idea  that  it  is  Arcadia,’’  said  Mr.  St.  John; 
“such  ideas  lead  to  a great  deal  of  disappointment; 
but  you  must  not  let  yourself  be  discouraged  either. 
I don’t  think  that  Cicely  knows  all  the  outs  and 
ins  of  the  story  about  the  cottages.” 

“Miss  St.  John  said  nothing  about  the  cottages.” 

“Ah!  I thought  she  had  put  you  out  of  spirits; 
that  would  be  foolish,”  said  the  curate  kindly. 
“You  see,  Mr.  Mildmay,  everybody  here  thinks  a 
great  deal  of  a little  money;  it  is  so,  I believe,  in 
every  small  place;  they  have  little,  very  little, 
Heaven  knows;  and  somehow,  when  one  is  very 
poor,  that  gets  to  look  of  more  importance  than 
anything  else.  I don’t  say  so  from  personal  ex- 
perience, though  I have  always  been  poor  enough. 
My  way,  I am  afraid,  is  to  think  too  little  of  the 
money,  not  too  much — which  is,  perhaps,  as  great 
a mistake  the  other  way;  but  it  is  much  easier,  you 
know,  to  condemn  those  faults  we  have  no  mind 
to,”  Mr.  St.  John  added  with  a smile.  The  visit  of 
an  intelligent  stranger  had  quite  brightened  the 
good  man  up,  though  it  ought  to  have  depressed 
him,  according  to  all  principles  of  good  sense. 
The  curate  forgot  how  much  he  himself  must  suffer 


174 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


from  the  change  that  was  coming.  Mildmay 
pleased  him;  he  was  deferential  to  his  own  grey 
hairs  and  long  experience;  he  was  willing  to  hear 
and  apparently  to  take,  his  predecessor’s  opinion, 
and  Mr.  St.  John  liked  the  novelty,  the  new  com- 
panion, the  attentive  listener.  He  walked  on  quite 
briskly,  with  the  easy  steps  of  a man  to  whom  the 
way  is  so  familiar  that  he  does  not  need  to  pause 
to  look  where  he  is  going.  Now  and  then  he 
would  stop  to  point  out  a view,  a glimpse  of  the 
distant  forest,  a slope  opening  down  upon  the  lower 
level  of  the  common,  or  even  a pretty  cottage;  and 
one  of  them,  a most  picturesque  refuge  of  misery, 
with  tiny  little  casement  windows  bulging  anyhow 
from  the  ruddy  old  wall,  and  a high  roof  of  the 
most  indescribable  and  beautiful  mixture  of  tints, 
set  him  easily  afloat  again  upon  the  subject  of 
which  his  mind  was  full. 

“Look  at  it!”  he  said;  “it  is  a picture.  If  one 
could  only  clear  them  out  and  shut  them  up — or 
rather  throw  them  open,  that  the  winds  of  heaven 
might  enter,  but  not  our  fellow- creatures,  Mr.  Mild- 
may! As  I was  saying,  they  are  all  poor  here. 
The  people  think  you  do  them  an  injury  when  you 
speak  of  anything  that  has  to  be  paid  for.  Be- 
cause I have  tried  to  get  the  cottages  put  into 
good  repair,  the  arrangements  made  a little  more 
decent,  and  the  places  fit  to  live  in,  more  than  two 
or  three  of  the  people  have  left  the  parish  church. 
Yes,  that  is  quite  true — I thought  Cicely  must  have 
told  you — well-to-do  people,  who  might  have 
spared  a few  pounds  well  enough.  It  was  a trial; 


THE  parson’s  round. 


175 


but  what  of  that?  I have  outlived  it,  and  perhaps 
done  a little  good.” 

‘‘The  cottagers,  at  least,  must  have  been  grate- 
ful to  you,”  said  Mildmay;  but  the  curate  shook  his 
head. 

“The  cottagers  thought  I was  only  trying  to 
get  them  turned  out,”  he  said.  “They  almost 
mobbed  me  once.  I told  them  they  should  not 
take  lodgers  and  lodgers  till  every  room  was 
crowded.  They  are  as  bad  as  the  landlords;  but, 
poor  souls!  it  was  easy  to  forgive  them,  for 
the  shilling  or  two  they  gained  was  such  an  ob- 
ject to  them.  I thought  it  best  to  tell  you;  but 
there  was  really  nothing  in  it,  nothing  to  be  an- 
noyed about.  It  was  soon  over.  You,  a young 
man,  need  not  be  discouraged  by  any  such  episode 
as  that.” 

“Mr.  St.  John,  there  is  something  which  dis- 
courages me  much  more,”  said  Mildmay.  “When  I 
came  yesterday  to  see  Brentburn,  I did  not  know 
you  at  all.  I had  heard  your  name;  that  was  all. 
I thought  you  were  most  likely  a man  of  my  own 
standing,  or  younger ” 

“As  a curate  ought  to  be,”  said  Mr.  St.  John, 
once  more  shaking  his  head.  “Yes;  I was  saying 
to  Cicely,  it  is  almost  a stigma  upon  a man  to  be 
a curate  at  my  age;  but  so  it  is,  and  I cannot  help 
it.  Perhaps  if  I had  not  settled  down  so  completely 
when  I was  young,  if  I had  been  more  energetic;  I 
feel  that  now — but  what  good  does  it  do?  it  is  too 
late  now  to  change  my  nature.  The  children  are 
the  worst,”  he  said,  with  a sigh,  “for  they  must  come 


176  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

upon  the  girls.”  Then  recovering  himself  with  a 
faint  smile,  ‘T  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Mildmay,  for 
going  off  with  my  own  thoughts.  You  said  it  dis- 
couraged you.  Do  you  mean  my  example?  You 
must  take  it  as  a lesson  and  a warning,  not  as  an 
example.  I am  very  sensible  it  is  my  own  fault.” 

‘T  came  to  supplant  you,  to  take  your  place,  to 
turn  you  out  of  your  home,”  said  Mildmay,  finding 
it  a kind  of  relief  to  his  feelings  to  employ  Cicely’s 
words,  ‘‘and  you  received  me  like  a friend,  took  me 
into  your  house,  made  me  sit  at  your  table ” 

The  curate  was  startled  by  his  vehemence.  He 
laughed,  then  looked  at  him  half  alarmed.  “What 
should  I have  done  else?”  he  said.  “I  hope  you 
are  a friend.  Supplant  me!  I have  been  here  a 
great  deal  longer  than  I had  any  right  to  expect 
Of  course,  we  all  knew  a new  rector  would  come. 
The  girls,  indeed,  had  vague  notions  about  some- 
thing that  might  be  done — they  did  not  know  what, 
poor  things!  how  should  they?  But  of  course  from 
the  first  I was  aware  what  must  happen.  No,  no; 
you  must  not  let  that  trouble  you.  I am  glad,  on 
the  contrary,  very  glad,  that  the  people  are  going 
to  fall  into  hands  like  yours.” 

“Poor  hands,”  said  Mildmay.  “Mr.  St.  John, 
you  may  think  it  strange  that  I should  say  this;  but 
it  is  you  who  ought  to  be  the  rector,  not  me.  You 
ought  to  stay  here;  I feel  it.  If  I come  after  all,  I 
shall  be  doing  a wrong  to  the  people  and  to  you, 
and  even  to  the  Church,  where  such  things  should 
not  be.” 

Once  more  Mr.  St.  John  slowly  shook  his  head; 


THE  parson’s  round. 


177 


a smile  came  over  his  face;  he  held  out  his  hand. 

is  pleasant  to  hear  you  say  it;  somehow  it  is 
pleasant  to  hear  you  say  it.  I felt  sure  Cicely  had 
been  saying  something  to  you  this  morning.  But 
no,  no;  they  would  never  have  given  me  the  living, 
and  I should  never  have  asked  for  it.  As  for  a 
wrong,  nobody  will  feel  it  a wrong;  not  myself,  nor 
the  Church,  and  the  people  here  last  of  all.” 

‘‘They  must  look  upon  you  as  their  father,”  said 
Mildmay  warmly.  “Nothing  else  is  possible.  To 
them  it  is  the  greatest  wrong  of  all.” 

“You  speak  like  a — boy,”  said  the  curate.  “Yes, 
you  speak  like  a kind,  warm-hearted  boy.  The  girls 
say  the  same  kind  of  things.  You  are  all  young, 
and  think  of  what  ought  to  be,  not  of  what  is.  The 
people ! The  Church  does  not  give  them  any  voice  in 
the  matter,  and  it  is  just  as  well.  Mr.  Mildmay,  Tve 
been  a long  time  among  them.  Tve  tried  to  do  what  I 
could  for  them.  Some  of  them  like  me  well  enough; 
but  the  people  have  never  forgotten  that  I was  only 
curate — not  rector.  They  have  remembered  it  all 
these  twenty  years,  when  sometimes  I was  half 
tempted  to  forget  it  myself.” 

“Oh,  sir,  do  not  think  so  badly  of  human  na- 
ture!” said  Mildmay,  almost  with  a recoil  from  so 
hard  a judgment. 

“Do  I think  badly  of  human  nature?  I don’t 
feel  that  I do;  and  why  should  this  be  thinking 
badly?  Which  is  best  for  them  to  have,  a man  who 
is  well  off,  who  is  a real  authority  in  the  parish, 
whom  the  farmers  and  masters  will  stand  in  awe  of, 
and  will  be  able  to  help  them  in  trouble — or  a 

The  Curate  in  Charge^ 


12 


178  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

poor  man  who  has  to  struggle  for  himself,  who  has 
nothing  to  spare,  and  no  great  influence  with  any 
one?  I shall  feel  it,  perhaps,  a little said  Mr.  St. 
John,  with  a smile;  “but  it  will  be  quite  unreasonable 
to  feel  it.  In  a month  you  will  be  twice  as  popular 
in  the  parish  as  I am  after  twenty  years.’’ 

“It  is  not  possible!”  said  the  young  man. 

“Ah,  my  dear  Mr.  Mildmay,  a great  many  things 
are  possible!  The  girls  think  like  you.  I suppose 
it  is  natural;  but  when  you  come  to  take  everything 
into  account — the  only  thing  to  have  been  desired 
was  that  I should  have  died  before  Mr.  Chester;  or, 
let  us  say  that  he  should  have  outlived  me,  which 
sounds  more  cheerful.  Come,”  said  the  curate  with 
an  effort,  “don’t  let  us  think  of  this.  I hope  you 
are  a friend,  Mr.  Mildmay,  as  I said;  but,  as  you 
say  yourself,  your  are  only  a friend  of  yesterday,  so 
why  you  should  take  my  burden  on  your  shoulders 
I don’t  know.  I think  we  may  venture  to  call  on 
the  Ascotts  now.  He  is  a little  rough,  or  rather 
bluff,  but  a good  man;  and  she  is  a little — fanciful,” 
said  the  curate,  searching  for  a pleasant  word,  “but 
a kind  woman.  If  you  take  to  them,  and  they  to 
you ” 

“On  what  pretence  should  I go  to  see  them, 
unsettled  as  I am  about  my  future?”  said  Mildmay, 
hesitating. 

The  curate  looked  at  him  with  a smile.  He 
rang  the  bell,  then  opened  the  door,  which,  like 
most  innocent  country  doors,  opened  from  the  out- 
side. Then  he  fixed  his  mild  eyes  upon  the  young 
man.  He  had  some  gentle  insight  in  his  way  by 


THE  parson's  round. 


179 


right  of  his  years  and  experience  of  life,  simple- 
minded  as  he  was.  ‘^You  go  as  the  new  rector — 
the  best  of  introductions,"  he  said,  and  led  the  way 
smiling.  It  was  not  difficult,  perhaps,  to  see  through 
the  struggle  in  Mildmay's  mind  between  his  own 
wish  and  determination,  and  his  sympathetic  sense 
of  the  hardship  involved  to  others.  I think  the 
curate  was  quite  right  in  believing  that  it  was  the 
personal  inclination  which  would  gain  the  day,  and 
not  the  generous  impulse;  as,  indeed,  Mr.  St.  John 
fully  recognized  it  ought  to  be. 

Mr.  Ascott  was  in  his  library,  reading  the  news- 
paper, but  with  such  an  array  of  papers  about  him, 
as  made  that  indulgence  look  momentary  and  ac- 
cidental. He  was  not  the  squire  of  the  parish,  but 
he  had  a considerable  landed  property  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  liked  to  be  considered  as  holding 
that  position.  He  received  Mr.  Mildmay,  boldly  in- 
troduced by  the  curate  as  the  new  rector,  with  the 
greatest  cordiality.  had  not  seen  the  appoint- 
ment," he  said,  “but  I am  most  happy  to  welcome 
you  to  the  parish.  I hope  you  like  what  you  have 
seen  of  it?  This  is  quite  an  agreeable  surprise." 

Mildmay  found  it  very  difficult  to  reply,  for  was 
not  every  word  of  congratulation  addressed  to  him 
an  injury  to  his  companion,  whose  star  must  set  as 
his  rose?  The  curate,  however,  showed  no  such 
feeling.  His  amour  propre  was  quite  satisfied  by 
being  the  first  to  know  and  to  present  to  the  parish 
its  new  rector.  “Yes,  I thought  you  would  be 
pleased  to  hear  at  once,"  he  said,  with  gentle  com- 
placency. “I  would  not  let  him  pass  your  door." 


12 


i8o 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


^‘Poor  Chester!  This  reminds  me  of  him,”  said 
Mr.  Ascott.  ‘‘He  came  to  Brentburn  in  my  father’s 
time,  when  I was  a young  fellow  at  home  fresh 
from  the  university.  He  was  a very  accomplished 
man.  It  was  a pity  he  had  such  bad  health.  A 
parish  gets  out  of  order  when  it  is  without  the 
proper  authorities.  Even  a good  deputy — and  St. 
John,  I am  sure,  has  been  the  best  of  deputies — is 
never  like  the  man  himself.” 

“That  is  just  what  I have  been  saying,”  said 
Mr.  St.  John;  but  though  he  took  it  with  great 
equanimity,  it  was  less  pleasant  to  him  to  hear  this, 
than  to  say  it  himself.  “I  think  I will  leave  you 
now,”  he  added.  “I  have  a great  deal  to  do  this 
morning.  Mr.  Ascott  will  tell  you  many  things  that 
will  be  really  valuable,  and  at  two  o’clock  or  sooner 
we  will  expect  you  at  the  rectory.” 

“It  is  a pity  to  trouble  you  and  your  girls,  St. 
John.  He  can  have  some  luncheon  here.  Mrs. 
Ascott  will  be  delighted  to  see  him.” 

“I  shall  be  at  the  rectory  without  fail,”  said 
Mildmay,  with  a sense  of  partial  offence.  He  be- 
longed to  the  rectory,  not  to  this  complacent  secular 
person.  A certain  esprit  de  corps  was  within  him. 
If  the  rest  of  the  world  neglected  the  poor  curate, 
he  at  least  would  show  that  to  him  the  old  priest 
was  the  first  person  in  the  parish.  “Or,”  he  added, 
hesitating,  “I  will  go  with  you  now.” 

Mr.  St.  John  did  not  wish  this.  He  felt  that  he 
would  be  less  at  his  ease  with  his  poor  people  if 
conscious  of  this  new  man  fresh  from  Oxford  at  his 
elbow.  There  might  be,  for  anything  he  knew  to 


THE  parson’s  round.  l8l 

the  contrary,  newfangled  ways  even  of  visiting  the 
sick.  To  talk  to  them  cheerily,  kindly,  as  he  had 
always  done,  might  not  fall  in  with  the  ideas  of 
duty  held  by  ‘‘high”  schools  of  doctrine,  of  what- 
ever kind.  He  went  away  plodding  along  the  high 
road  in  the  sultry  noon,  with  a smile  still  upon  his 
face,  which  faded,  however,  when  the  stimulus  of 
Mildmay’s  company,  and  the  gratification  of  pre- 
senting the  stranger  to  the  great  people  of  the 
parish,  had  subsided.  These  circumstances  were 
less  exhilarating  when  the  curate  was  alone,  and 
had  to  remember  Wilkins  and  all  the  outstanding 
bills,  and  the  fact  that  the  furniture  in  the  rectory 
was  to  be  sold,  and  that  Cicely  that  very  night  would 
ask  him  once  more  what  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
do.  What  could  he  make  up  his  mind  to  do?  The 
very  question,  when  he  put  it  to  himself  merely, 
and  when  it  was  not  backed  up  by  an  eager  young 
face,  and  a pair  of  eyes  blazing  into  him,  was  be- 
wildering enough;  it  made  the  curate’s  head  go 
round  and  round.  Even  when  he  came  to  Brent- 
burn  twenty  years  ago  it  was  not  his  own  doing. 
Friends  had  found  the  appointment  for  him,  and 
arranged  all  the  preliminaries.  Nothing  had  been 
left  for  him  but  to  accept  it,  and  he  had  accepted. 
And  at  that  time  he  had  Hester  to  fall  back  upon. 
But  now  to  “look  out  for  something,”  to  apply  for 
another  curacy,  to  advertise  and  answer  advertise- 
ments, describing  himself  and  his  capabilities — how 
was  he  to  do  it?  He  was  quite  ready  to  consent 
to  anything,  to  let  Cicely  manage  for  him  if  she 
would;  but  to  take  the  initiative  himself!  The  very 


iSz 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


thought  of  this  produced  a nervous  confusion  in 
his  mind  which  seemed  to  make  an  end  of  all  his 
powers. 

“You  must  come  upstairs  and  see  my  wife,” 
said  Mr.  Ascott.  “She  will  be  delighted  to  make 
your  acquaintance.  She  has  been  a great  deal  in 
society,  and  I don’t  doubt  you  and  she  will  find 
many  people  to  talk  about.  As  for  me,  I am  but 
a country  fellow,  I don’t  go  much  into  the  world. 
When  your  interests  are  all  in  the  country,  why, 
stick  to  the  country  is  my  maxim;  but  my  wife  is 
fond  of  fine  people.  You  and  she  will  find  a hun- 
dred mutual  acquaintances  in  half-an-hour,  you  will 
see.” 

“But  I am  not  fond  of  the  fine  people — nor 
have  I so  many  acquaintances.” 

“Oh,  you  Oxford  dons  know  everybody.  They 
all  pass  through  your  hands.  Come  along,  it  will 
be  quite  a pleasure  for  my  wife  to  see  you.  Ade- 
laide, I am  bringing  you  some  one  who  will  be  a 
surprise  to  you  as  well  as  a pleasure.  Mr.  Mildmay, 
our  new  rector,  my  dear.” 

“Our  new  rector!”  Mrs.  Ascott  said,  with  a sub- 
dued outcry  of  surprise.  She  was  seated  in  a corner 
of  a large  light  room  with  three  or  four  large  win- 
dows looking  out  upon  a charming  lawn  and  gar- 
den, beyond  which  appeared  the  tufted  undulations 
of  the  common,  and  the  smooth  green  turf  and 
white  posts  of  the  race-ground.  With  a house  like 
this,  looking  out  upon  so  interesting  a spot,  no  one 
need  be  surprised  that  Mrs.  Ascott’s  fine  friends 
“kept  her  up,”  and  that  for  at  least  one  week  in 


THE  PARSON^S  ROUND. 


183 


the  year  she  was  as  popular  and  sought  after  as 
any  queen.  Though  it  was  only  one  week  in  the 
year,  it  had  a certain  influence  upon  her  manners. 
She  lived  all  the  year  through  in  a state  of  reflected 
glory  from  this  brief  but  ever-recurring  climax  of 
existence.  The  air  of  conferring  a favour,  the  look 
of  gracious  politeness,  yet  pre-occupation,  which 
suited  a woman  over-balanced  by  the  claims  of 
many  candidates  for  her  hospitality,  never  departed 
from  her.  She  gave  that  little  cry  of  surprise  just 
as  she  would  have  done  had  her  husband  brought 
a stranger  to  her  to  see  if  she  could  give  him  a 
bed  for  the  race  week.  ‘T  am  delighted  to  make 
Mr.  Mildmay's  acquaintance,’'  she  said;  ‘‘but,  my 
dear,  I thought  there  was  going  to  be  an  effort 
made  for  poor  Mr.  St.  John?”  This  was  in  a lower 
tone,  as  she  might  have  said,  “But  there  is  only  one 
spare  room,  and  that  I have  promised  to  Mr.  St. 
John.”  Her  husband  laughed. 

“I  told  you,  my  dear,  that  was  nonsense.  What 
do  ladies  know  of  such  matters?  They  talked  of 
some  foolish  petition  or  other  to  the  Lord  Chan- 
cellor, as  if  the  Lord  Chancellor  had  anything  to 
do  with  it ! You  may  be  very  thankful  you  had  me 
behind  you,  my  dear,  to  keep  you  from  such  a 
foolish  mistake.  No;  Mr.  Mildmay  has  it,  and  I 
am  very  glad.  The  dons  have  done  themselves 
credit  by  their  choice,  and  we  are  in  great  luck.  I 
hope  you  will  not  be  like  your  predecessor,  Mr. 
Mildmay,  and  take  a dislike  to  the  parish.  We 
must  do  our  best,  Adelaide,  to  prevent  that.” 

“Indeed,  I hope  so,”  said  the  lady.  “I  am  sure 


184 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


I am  delighted.  I think  I have  met  some  relations 
of  yours,  Mr.  Mildmay — the  Hamptons  of  Thorn- 
bury?  Yes;  I felt  sure  I had  heard  them  mention 
you.  You  recollect,  Henry,  they  lunched  with  us 
here  the  year  before  last,  on  the  cup  day?  They 
came  with  Lady  Teddington  — charming  people. 
And  you  know  all  the  Teddingtons,  of  course? 
What  a nice  family  they  are!  We  see  a great  deal 
of  Lord  Charles,  who  is  often  in  this  neighbour- 
hood. His  dear  mother  is  often  rather  anxious 
about  him.  I fear — I fear  he  is  just  a little  dis- 
posed to  be  what  you  gentlemen  call  fast.’' 

“We  gentlemen  don’t  mince  our  words,”  said 
her  husband;  “rowdy  young  scamp,  that  is  what  I 
call  him;  bad  lot.” 

“You  are  very  severe,  Henry — very  severe — ex- 
cept when  it  is  a favourite  of  your  own.  How  glad 
I am  we  are  getting  some  one  we  know  to  the  rec- 
tory. When  do  you  take  possession,  Mr.  Mildmay? 
We  shall  be  quite  near  neighbours,  and  will  see  a 
great  deal  of  you,  I hope.” 

“I  do  not  feel  quite  sure,  since  I have  been 
here,  whether  I will  come  to  the  rectory  at  all,” 
said  Mildmay.  “Mr.  St.  John  was  so  hasty  in  his 
announcement,  that  I feel  myself  a swindler  coming 
here  under  false  pretences.  I have  not  made  up 
my  mind  whether  I will  accept  the  living  or  not.” 

“Since  you  have  been  here?  Then  you  don’t 
like  the  place,”  said  Mr.  Ascott.  “I  must  say  I am 
surprised.  I think  you  are  hasty,  as  well  as  St. 
John.  Poor  Chester,  to  be  sure,  did  not  like  it,  but 
that  was  because  he  thought  it  did  not  agree  with 


THE  PARSON  S ROUND. 


185 


him.  The  greatest  nonsense!  it  is  as  healthy  a 
place  as  any  in  England;  it  has  a hundred  advan- 
tages. Perhaps  this  sort  of  thing  mayn’t  suit  you 
as  a clergyman,”  he  said,  waving  his  hand  towards 
the  distant  race-course;  ^‘but  it  gives  a great  deal 
of  life  to  the  place.” 

‘^And  so  near  town,”  said  Mrs.  Ascott;  ^‘and 
such  nice  people  in  the  neighbourhood!  Indeed, 
Mr.  Mildmay,  you  must  let  us  persuade  you;  you 
must  really  stay.” 

“Come,  now,”  cried  her  husband,  “let’s  talk  it 
over.  What’s  your  objection?  Depend  upon  it, 
Adelaide,  it  is  those  pets  of  yours,  the  St.  Johns, 
who  have  been  putting  nonsense  into  his  head.” 
“Poor  things,  what  do  they  know!”  said  Mrs. 
Ascott,  with  a sigh.  “But  indeed,  Mr.  Mildmay, 
now  that  we  have  seen  you,  and  have  a chance  of 
some  one  we  can  like,  with  such  nice  connections, 
we  cannot  let  you  go.” 

This  was  all  very  flattering  and  pleasant.  “You 
are  extremely  kind,”  said  Mildmay.  “I  must  put 
it  to  the  credit  of  my  relations,  for  I have  no  right 
to  so  much  kindness.  No,  it  is  not  any  objection 
to  the  place.  It  is  a still  stronger  objection.  I 
heard  Mrs.  Ascott  herself  speak  of  some  effort  to 

be  made  for  Mr.  St.  John ” 

“I — what  did  I say?”  cried  the  lady.  “Mr.  St. 
John?  Yes,  I was  sorry,  of  course;  very  sorry.” 

“It  was  all  nonsense,”  said  the  husband.  “I 
told  her  so.  She  never  meant  it;  only  what  could 
she  say  to  the  girls  when  they  appealed  to  her? 
She  is  a soft-hearted  goose — eh,  Adelaide?  One 


i86 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


prefers  women  to  be  so.  But  as  for  old  St.  John, 
it  is  sheer  nonsense.  Poor  old  fellow!  yes,  I am 
sorry  for  him.  But  whose  fault  is  it?  He  knew 
Chester’s  life  was  not  worth  that;  yet  he  has  hung 
on,  taking  no  trouble,  doing  nothing  for  himself. 
It  is  not  your  part  or  our  part  to  bother  our  minds 
for  a man  who  does  nothing  for  himself.” 

“That  is  true  enough,”  said  Mildmay;  “but  his 
long  services  to  the  parish,  his  age,  his  devotion  to 
his  work — it  does  not  seem  right.  I don’t  say  for 

you  or  for  me,  but  in  the  abstract ” 

“Devotion?”  said  Mr.  Ascott.  “Oh  yes;  he  has 
done  his  work  well  enough,  I suppose.  That’s  what 
is  called  devotion  when  a man  dies  or  goes  away. 
Yes,  oh  yes,  we  may  allow  him  the  credit  of  that, 
the  poor  old  fogey,  but — yes,  oh  yes,  a good  old 
fellow  enough.  When  you  have  said  that,  there’s 
no  more  to  say.  Perhaps  in  the  abstract  it  was  a 
shame  that  Chester  should  have  the  lion’s  share  of 
the  income,  and  St.  John  all  the  work;  but  that’s 
all  over;  and  as  for  any  hesitation  of  yours  on  his 
account ” 

“It  may  be  foolish,”  said  the  young  man,  “but 
I do  hesitate — I cannot  help  feeling  that  there  is  a 
great  wrong  involved — to  Mr.  St.  John,  of  course, 
in  the  first  place — but  without  even  thinking  of  any 
individual,  it  is  a sort  of  thing  that  must  injure  the 
Church;  and  I don’t  like  to  be  the  instrument  of 
injuring  the  Church.” 

“Tut — tut — tut!”  said  Mr.  Ascott;  “your  con- 
science is  too  tender  by  far.” 

“Mr.  Mildmay,”  said  the  lady  sweetly,  “you 


THE  PARSON  S ROUND. 


187 


must  not  expect  me  to  follow  such  deep  reasoning. 
I leave  that  to  superior  minds;  but  you  ought  to 
think  what  a great  thing  it  is  for  a parish  to  have 
some  one  to  look  up  to — some  one  the  poor  people 
can  feel  to  be  really  their  superior.” 

“Not  a poor  beggar  of  a curate,”  cried  her  hus- 
band. “There,  Adelaide!  you  have  hit  the  right 
nail  on  the  head.  That^s  the  true  way  to  look  at 
the  subject.  Poor  old  St.  John!  I don't  say  he's 
been  well  treated  by  destiny.  He  has  had  a deal 
of  hard  work,  and  he  has  stuck  to  it;  but,  bless 
you!  how  is  a man  like  that  to  be  distinguished 
from  a Dissenting  preacher,  for  instance?  Of 
course,  he's  a clergyman,  in  orders  and  all  that,  as 
good  as  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury;  but  he  has 
no  position — no  means — nothing  to  make  him  the 
centre  of  the  parish,  as  the  clergyman  ought  to  be. 
Why,  the  poorest  labourer  in  the  parish  looks  down 
upon  the  curate.  ‘Parson's  just  as  poor  as  we  is,' 
they  say.  Pve  heard  them.  He  has  got  to  run  up 
bills  in  the  little  shops,  and  all  that,  just  as  they 
have.  He  has  no  money  to  relieve  them  with  when 
they're  out  of  work.  The  farmers  look  down  upon 
him.  They  think  nothing  of  a man  that's  poor; 

and  as  for  the  gentry ” 

“Stop,  Henry,”  said  Mrs.  Ascott;  “the  gentry 
have  always  been  very  kind  to  the  St.  Johns.  We 
were  always  sorry  for  the  girls.  Poor  things!  their 
mother  was  really  quite  a lady,  though  I never 
heard  that  she  had  anything.  We  were  all  grieved 
about  this  last  sad  affair,  when  he  married  the 
governess;  and  I should  always  have  made  a point 


i88 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


of  being  kind  to  the  girls.  That  is  a very  different 
thing,  however,  Mr.  Mildmay,”  she  added,  with  a 
sweet  smile,  “from  having  a clergyman  whom  one 
can  really  look  up  to,  and  who  will  be  a friend 
and  neighbour  as  well  as  a clergyman.  You  will 
stay  to  luncheon?  I think  I hear  the  bell.” 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

What  the  Girls  could  do. 

Mildmay  left  the  house  of  the  Ascotts  hurriedly 
at  this  intimation.  He  thought  them  pleasant  people 
enough  — for  who  does  not  think  those  people 
pleasant  who  flatter  and  praise  him? — but  he  would 
not  allow  himself  to  be  persuaded  out  of  his  de- 
termination to  return  to  the  rectory.  I must  add 
however  that  his  mind  was  in  a more  confused  state 
than  ever  as  he  skirted  the  common  by  the  way  the 
curate  had  taken  him  on  the  previous  night.  There 
were  two  sides  to  every  question ; that  could  not  be 
gainsaid.  To  leave  Brentburn  after  passing  twenty 
years  here  in  arduous  discharge  of  all  the  rector^s 
duties,  but  with  the  rank  and  remuneration  only  of 
the  curate,  was  an  injury  too  hard  to  contemplate 
to  Mr.  St.  John;  but  then  it  was  not  Mildmay’s 
fault  that  he  should  interfere  at  his  own  cost  to 
set  it  right.  It  was  not  even  the  fault  of  the  parish. 
It  was  nobody’s  fault  but  his  own,  foolish  as  he 
was,  neglecting  all  chances  of  “bettering  himself.” 
If  a man  would  do  nothing  for  himself,  how  could 
it  be  the  duty  of  others,  of  people  no  way  con- 


WHAT  THE  GIRLS  COULD  DO.  1 89 

nected  with  him,  scarcely  knowing  him,  to  do  it  for 
him?  This  argument  was  unanswerable;  nothing 
could  be  more  reasonable,  more  certain;  and  yet — 
Mildmay  felt  that  he  himself  was  young,  that  the 
rectory  of  Brentburn  was  not  much  to  him  one  way 
or  the  other.  He  had  wanted  it  as  the  means  of 
living  a more  real  life  than  that  which  was  possible 
to  him  in  his  college  rooms;  but  he  had  no  stronger 
reason,  no  special  choice  of  the  place,  no  con- 
viction that  he  could  do  absolute  good  here;  and 
why  should  he  then  take  so  lightly  what  it  would 
cost  him  nothing  to  reject,  but  which  was  every- 
thing to  the  curate?  Then,  on  the  other  hand, 
there  was  the  parish  to  consider.  What  if — extra- 
ordinary as  that  seemed — it  did  not  want  Mr.  St. 
John?  What  if  really  his  very  poverty,  his  very 
gentleness,  made  him  unsuitable  for  it?  The  argu- 
ment seemed  a miserable  one,  so  far  as  the  money 
went;  but  it  might  be  true.  The  Ascotts,  for  in- 
stance, were  the  curate’s  friends;  but  this  was  their 
opinion.  Altogether  Mr.  Mildmay  was  very  much 
perplexed  on  the  subject.  He  wished  he  had  not 
come  to  see  for  himself,  just  as  an  artist  has  some- 
times been  sorry  for  having  consulted  that  very 
troublesome  reality.  Nature,  who  will  not  lend  her- 
self to  any  theory.  If  he  had  come  without  any 
previous  inspection  of  the  place,  without  any  know- 
ledge of  the  circumstances,  how  much  better  it 
would  have  been!  Whereas  now  he  was  weighed 
down  by  the  consideration  of  things  with  which  he 
had  really  nothing  to  do.  As  he  went  along,  full 
of  these  thoughts,  he  met  the  old  woman  whom  he 


I go  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

had  first  spoken  to  by  the  duck-pond  on  the  day 
before,  and  who  had  invited  him  to  sit  down  in  her 
cottage.  To  his  surprise — for  he  did  not  at  first 
recollect  who  she  was — she  made  him  a curtsy,  and 
stopped  short  to  speak  to  him.  As  it  was  in  the 
full  blaze  of  the  midday  sunshine,  Mildmay  would 
very  gladly  have  escaped  — not  to  say  that  he  was 
anxious  to  get  back  to  the  rectory,  and  to  finish, 
as  he  persuaded  himself  was  quite  necessary,  his 
conversation  with  Cicely.  Old  Mrs.  Joel,  however, 
stood  her  ground.  She  had  an  old-fashioned  large 
straw  bonnet  on  her  head,  which  protected  her 
from  the  sun;  and  besides,  was  more  tolerant  of 
the  sunshine,  and  more  used  to  exposure  than  he 
was. 

^‘Sir,^^  she  said,  ^T  hear  as  you’re  the  new  gen- 
tleman as  is  coming  to  our  parish.  I am  a poor 
woman,  sir,  the  widow  o’  Job  Joel,  as  was  about 
Brentburn  church,  man  and  boy,  for  more  than 
forty  year.  He  began  in  the  choir,  he  did,  and 
played  the  fiddle  in  the  old  times;  and  then,  when 
that  was  done  away  with,  my  husband  he  was  pro- 
moted to  be  clerk,  and  died  in  it.  They  could  not 
ezackly  make  me  clerk,  seeing  as  I’m  nothing  but 
a woman;  but  Dick  Williams,  as  is  the  sexton,  ain’t 
married,  and  I’ve  got  the  cleaning  of  the  church, 
and  the  pew-opening,  if  you  please,  sir;  and  I hope, 
sir,  as  you  won’t  think  it’s  nothing  but  justice  to 
an  old  servant,  to  let  me  stay?” 

‘‘What  do  you  think  of  Mr.  St.  John  going 
away?”  asked  Mildmay  abruptly. 

The  old  woman  stared,  half  alarmed,  and  made 


WHAT  THE  GIRLS  COULD  DO.  IQ  I 

him  another  curtsy,  to  occupy  the  time  till  she 
could  think  how  to  answer.  ^^Mr.  St.  John,  sir? 
He’s  a dear  good  gentleman,  sir;  as  innocent  as  a 
baby.  When  he’s  gone,  sir,  they  will  find  the  miss 
of  him,”  she  said,  examining  his  face  keenly  to  see 
how  he  meant  her  to  answer,  which  is  one  of  the 
highest  arts  of  the  poor. 

“If  he  goes  away,  after  being  here  so  long,  why 
shouldn’t  you  be  sent  away,  too?”  said  Mildmay. 
He  felt  how  absurd  was  this  questioning,  as  of  an 
oracle,  which  came  from  the  confused  state  of  his 
own  mind,  not  from  any  expectation  of  an  answer; 
and  then  he  could  not  but  smile  to  himself  at  the 
idea  of  thus  offering  up  a victim  to  the  curate’s 
manes, 

Mrs.  Joel  was  much  startled.  “Lord  bless  us!” 
she  said,  making  a step  backwards.  Then  command- 
ing herself,  “It  weren’t  Mr.  St.  John,  sir,  as  gave 
me  my  place;  but  the  rector  hisself.  Mr.  St.  John 
is  as  good  as  gold,  but  he  ain’t  not  to  say  my 
master.  Besides,  there’s  a many  as  can  do  the 
parson’s  work,  but  there  ain’t  many,  not  in  this 
parish,  as  could  do  mine.  Mr.  St.  John  would  be 
a loss — but  me,  sir ” 

Here  she  made  another  curtsy,  and  Mildmay 
laughed  in  spite  of  himself.  “You — would  be  a 
greater  loss?”  he  said.  “Well,  perhaps  so;  but  if 
there  are  any  good  reasons  why  he  should  leave, 
there  must  be  the  same  for  you.” 

“I  don’t  see  it,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Joel  promptly. 
“The  parson’s  old,  and  he’s  a bit  past  his  work; 
but  I defy  any  one  in  the  parish  to  say  as  the 


tQ2  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

church  ain’t  as  neat  as  a new  pin.  Mr.  St.  John’s 
getting  a bit  feeble  in  the  legs;  he  can’t  go  long 
walks  now  like  once  he  could.  Me!  I may  be  old, 
but  as  for  my  mop  and  my  duster,  I ain’t  behind 
nobody.  Lord  bless  you!  it’s  a very  different  thing 
with  Mr.  St.  John  from  what  it  is  with  me.  He’s 
got  those  girls  of  his  to  think  upon,  and  those  little 
children.  What’s  he  got  to  do  with  little  children 
at  his  age?  But  I’ve  nobody  but  myself  to  go 
troubling  my  brains  about.  I thinks  o’  my  work, 
and  nought  else.  You  won’t  get  another  woman 
in  the  parish  as  will  do  it  as  cheap  and  as  com- 
fortable as  me.” 

“But  don’t  you  think,”  said  Mildmay — whose 
conduct  I cannot  excuse,  and  whose  only  apology 
is  that  his  mind  was  entirely  occupied  with  one 
subject — “don’t  you  think  it  is  very  hard  upon  Mr. 
St.  John  at  his  age,  to  go  away?” 

Mrs.  Joel  found  herself  in  a dilemma.  She  had 
no  desire  to  speak  ill  of  the  curate,  but  if  she 
spoke  too  well  of  him,  might  not  that  annoy  the 
new  rector,  and  endanger  her  own  cause?  She 
eyed  him  very  keenly,  never  taking  her  eyes  off  his 
face,  to  be  guided  by  its  changes.  “Between  gentle- 
folks and  poor  folks,”  she  said  at  last,  philo- 
sophically, “there’s  a great  gulf  fixed,  as  is  said  in 
the  Bible.  They  can’t  judge  for  us,  nor  us  for 
them.  He’s  a deal  abler  to  speak  up  for  hisself, 
and  settle  for  hisself,  than  the  likes  o’  me;  and  I 
reckon  as  he  could  stay  on  if  he’d  a mind  to;  but 
me,  sir,  it’s  your  pleasure  as  I’ve  got  to  look  to,” 
said  the  old  woman,  with  another  curtsy.  This 


WHAT  THE  GIRLS  COULD  DO.  1 93 

oracle,  it  was  clear,  had  no  response  or  guidance 
to  give. 

'‘Well,”  he  said,  carelessly,  “I  will  speak  to  Miss 
St.  John — for  I don^t  know  about  the  parish;  and 
if  she  approves ” 

A gleam  of  intelligence  came  into  the  keen  old 
eyes  which  regarded  him  so  closely;  the  old  face 
lighted  up  with  a twinkle  of  mingled  pleasure,  and 
malice,  and  kindness.  “If  thaUs  so,  the  Lord  be 
praised!”  she  cried;  “and  I hope,  sir,  iUs  Miss 
Cicely;  for  if  ever  there  was  a good  wife,  ifs  her 
dear  mother  as  is  dead  and  gone;  and  Miss  Cicely’s 
her  very  breathing  image.  Good  morning  to  you, 
and  God  bless  you,  sir,  and  I hope  as  I haven’t 
made  too  bold.” 

What  does  the  old  woman  mean?  Mildmay 
said  to  himself  bewildered.  He  repeated  the  ques- 
tion over  and  over  again  as  he  pursued  his  way  to 
the  rectory.  What  was  it  to  him  that  Cicely  St. 
John  was  like  her  mother?  The  curate,  too,  had 
insisted  upon  this  fact  as  if  it  was  of  some  im- 
portance. What  interest  do  they  suppose  me  to 
take  in  the  late  Mrs.  St.  John?  he  said,  with  great 
surprise  and  confusion  to  himself. 

Meanwhile,  the  girls  in  the  rectory  had  been 
fully  occupied.  When  their  father  went  out,  they 
held  a council  of  war  together,  at  which  indeed 
Mab  did  not  do  much  more  than  question  and 
assent,  for  her  mind  was  not  inventive  or  full  of 
resource  as  Cicely’s  was.  It  was  she,  however,  who 
opened  the  consultation.  “What  were  you  saying 
to  Mr.  Mildmay  in  the  garden?”  said  Mab.  “You 

The  Cnraie  in  Charge ^ 13 


1 94  the  curate  in  charge. 

told  him  something.  He  did  not  look  the  same 
to-day  as  he  did  last  night.’’ 

told  him  nothing,”  said  Cicely.  was  so 
foolish  as  to  let  him  see  that  we  felt  it  very  much. 
No,  I must  not  say  foolish.  How  could  we  help 
but  feel  it?  It  is  injustice,  if  it  was  the  Queen 
herself  who  did  it.  But  perhaps  papa  is  right — if 
he  does  not  come,  some  one  else  would  come.  And 
he  has  a heart.  I do  not  hate  him  so  much  as  I 
did  last  night.” 

‘‘Hate  him!  I do  not  hate  him  at  all.  He 
knows  how  to  draw,  and  said  some  things  that 
were  sense — really  sense — and  so  few  people  do 
that,”  said  Mab,  thinking  of  her  sketch.  “I  must 
have  those  mites  again  when  the  light  is  about  the 
same  as  last  time,  and  finish  it.  Cicely,  what  are 
you  thinking  of  now?” 

“So  many  things,”  said  the  girl,  with  a sigh. 
“Oh,  what  a change,  what  a change,  since  we 
camel  How  foolish  we  have  been,  thinking  we 
were  to  stay  here  always!  Now,  in  six  weeks  or 
so,  we  must  go — I don’t  know  where;  and  we  must 
pay  our  debts — I don’t  know  how;  and  we  must 
live  without  anything  to  live  on.  Mab,  help  me! 
Papa  won’t  do  anything;  we  must  settle  it  all,  you 
and  I.” 

“You  need  not  say  you  and  I,  Cicely.  I never 
was  clever  at  plans.  It  must  be  all  yourself.  What 
a good  thing  you  are  like  mamma!  Don’t  you 
think  we  might  go  to  Aunt  Jane?” 

“Aunt  Jane  kept  us  at  school  for  three  years,” 
said  Cicely.  “She  has  not  very  much  herself.  How 


WHAT  THE  GIRLS  COULD  DO. 


195 


can  I ask  her  for  more?  K it  were  not  so  dread- 
ful to  lose  you,  I should  say,  Go,  Mab  — she 
would  be  glad  to  have  you  — and  work  at  your 
drawing,  and  learn  all  you  can,  while  I stay  with 
papa  here.’^ 

Cicely’s  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  her  steady 
voice  faltered.  Mab  threw  her  arms  round  her 
sister’s  neck.  will  never  leave  you.  I will  never 
go  away  from  you.  What  is  drawing  or  anything 
if  we  must  be  parted? — we  never  were  parted  all 
our  lives.” 

‘^That  is  very  true,”  said  Cicely,  drying  her 
eyes.  ‘‘But  we  can’t  do  as  we  like  now.  I sup- 
pose people  never  can  do  what  they  like  in  this 
world.  We  used  to  think  it  was  only  till  we  grew 
up.  Mab,  listen — now  is  the  time  when  we  must 
settle  what  to  do.  Papa  is  no  good.  I don’t  mean 
to  blame  him;  but  he  has  been  spoiled;  he  has  al- 
ways had  things  done  for  him.  I saw  that  last 
night.  To  ask  him  only  makes  him  unhappy;  I 
have  been  thinking  and  thinking,  and  I see  what 
to  do.” 

Mab  raised  her  head  from  her  sister’s  shoulder, 
and  looked  at  Cicely  with  great  tender  believing 
eyes.  The  two  forlorn  young  creatures  had  nobody 
to  help  them;  but  the  one  trusted  in  the  other, 
which  was  a safeguard  for  the  weaker  soul;  and  she 
who  had  nobody  to  trust  in  except  God,  felt  that 
inspiration  of  the  burden  which  was  laid  upon  her, 
which  sometimes  is  the  strongest  of  all  supports 
to  the  strong,  Her  voice  still  faltered  a little,  and 


tg6  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

her  eyes  glistened,  but  she  put  what  was  worse  first, 
as  a brave  soul  naturally  does. 

“Mab,  you  must  go — it  is  the  best — you  are 
always  happy  with  your  work,  and  Aunt  Jane  will 
be  very  kind  to  you;  and  the  sooner  you  can  make 
money,  don’t  you  see?  It  would  not  do  to  go  back 
to  school,  even  if  Miss  Blandy  would  have  us,  for 
all  we  could  do  there  was  to  keep  ourselves.  Mab, 
you  are  so  clever,  you  will  soon  now  be  able  to 
help;  and  you  know,  even  if  papa  gets  something, 
there  will  always  be  the  little  boys.” 

‘^Yes,  I know,”  said  Mab,  subdued.  ‘‘O  Cicely, 
don’t  be  vexed!  I should  like  it— I know  I should 
like  it — but  for  leaving  you.” 

Cicely’s  bosom  heaved  with  a suppressed  sob. 
“You  must  not  mind  me.  I shall  have  so  much 
to  do,  I shall  have  no  time  to  think;  and  so  long 
as  one  can  keep  one’s  self  from  thinking! — There 
now,  that  is  settled.  I wanted  to  say  it,  and  I 
dared  not.  After  that — Mab,  don’t  ask  me  my 
plans!  I am  going  round  this  very  day,”  cried 
Cicely,  springing  to  her  feet,  “to  all  those  people 
we  owe  money  to.”  This  sudden  movement  was 
half  the  impulse  of  her  vivacious  nature,  which 
could  not  continue  in  one  tone,  whatever  hap- 
pened, and,  half  an  artifice  to  conceal  the  emotion 
which  was  too  deep  for  her  sister  to  share.  Cicely 
felt  the  idea  of  the  separation  much  more  than 
Mab  did,  though  it  was  Mab  who  was  crying  over 
it;,  and  the  elder  sister  dared  not  dwell  upon  the 
thought.  “I  must  go  round  to  them  all,”  said 
Cicely,  taking  the  opportunity  to  get  rid  of  her 


WHAT  THE  GIRLS  COULD  DO.  1 97 

tears,  ^^and  ask  them  to  have  a little  patience. 
There  will  be  another  half-year’s  income  before  we 
leave,  and  they  shall  have  all,  all  I can  give  them. 
I hope  they  will  be  reasonable.  Mab,  I ought  to 
go  now.” 

^‘Oh,  what  will  you  say  to  them?  Oh,  how 
have  you  the  courage  to  do  it?  O Cicely!  when  it 
is  not  your  fault.  It  is  papa  who  ought  to  do  it!” 
cried  Mab. 

‘Tt  does  not  matter  so  much  who  ought  to  do 
it,”  said  Cicely,  with  composure.  ^‘Some  one  must 
do  it,  and  I don’t  know  who  will  but  me.  Then  I 
think  there  ought  to  be  an  advertisement  written 
for  the  GuardiafiJ^ 

‘^Cicely,  you  said  you  were  to  stay  with  papa!” 

‘Tt  is  not  for  me;  it  is  for  papa  himself.  Poor 
papa!  Oh,  what  a shame,  what  a shame,  at  his 
age!  And  a young  man,  that  young  man,  with 
nothing  to  recommend  him,  coming  in  to  everything, 
and  turning  us  out!  I can’t  talk  about  it,”  cried 
Cicely.  “The  best  thing  for  us  is  to  go  and  do 
something.  I can  make  up  the  advertisement  on 
the  way.” 

And  in  the  heat  of  this,  she  put  on  her  hat  and 
went  out,  leaving  Mab  half  stupefied  by  the  sudden- 
ness of  all  those  settlements.  Mab  had  not  the 
courage  to  offer  to  go  to  Wilkins  and  the  rest  with 
her  sister.  She  cried  over  all  that  Cicely  had  to 
do;  but  she  knew  very  well  that  she  had  not  the 
strength  to  do  it.  She  went  and  arranged  her  easel, 
and  set  to  work  very  diligently.  That  was  always 
something;  and  to  make  money,  would  not  that  be 


igS 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


best  of  all,  as  well  as  the  pleasantest?  Mab  did 
not  care  for  tiring  herself,  nor  did  she  think  of  her 
own  enjoyment.  That  she  should  be  the  brother 
working  for  both,  and  Cicely  the  sister  keeping  her 
house,  had  always  been  the  girl’s  ideal,  which  was 
far  from  a selfish  one.  But  she  could  not  do  what 
Cicely  was  doing.  She  could  not  steer  the  poor 
little  ship  of  the  family  fortunes  or  misfortunes 
through  this  dangerous  passage.  Though  she  was, 
she  hoped,  to  take  the  man’s  part  of  breadwinner, 
for  the  moment  she  shrank  into  that  woman’s  part 
which  women  too  often  are  not  permitted  to  hold. 
To  keep  quiet  at  home,  wondering  and  working  in 
obscurity — wondering  how  the  brave  adventurer 
was  faring  who  had  to  fight  for  bare  life  outside  in 
the  world. 

I dare  not  follow  Cicely  through  her  morning’s 
work;  it  would  take  up  so  much  time;  and  it  would 
not  be  pleasant  for  us  any  more  than  it  was  for 
her.  “Don’t  you  make  yourself  unhappy,  Miss,” 
said  the  butcher,  “I  know  as  you  mean  well  by 
every  one.  A few  pounds  ain’t  much  to  me,  the 
Lord  be  praised!  and  I’ll  wait,  and  welcome,  for  I 
know  as  you  mean  well.”  Cicely,  poor  child!  being 
only  nineteen,  cried  when  these  kind  words  were 
said  to  her,  and  was  taken  into  the  hot  and  greasy 
parlour,  where  the  butcher’s  wife  was  sitting,  and 
petted  and  comforted.  “Bless  you,  things  will  turn 
out  a deal  better  than  you  think,”  Mrs.  Butcher 
said;  “they  always  does.  Wait  till  we  see  the  hand- 
some young  gentleman  as  is  coming  through  the 
woods  for  you,  Miss  Cicely  dear:  and  a good  wife 


WHAT  THE  GIRLS  COULD  DO.  IQ9 

he’ll  have,  like  your  dear  mother,”  this  kind  woman 
added,  smiling,  yet  wiping  her  eyes.  But  Wilkins 
the  grocer  was  much  more  difficult  to  manage,  and 
to  him  Cicely  set  her  fair  young  face  like  a flint, 
biting  her  lips  to  keep  them  steady,  and  keeping 
all  vestige  of  tears  from  her  eyes.  “Whatever  you 
do,”  she  said  with  those  firm  pale  lips,  “we  cannot 
pay  you  now;  but  you  shall  be  paid  if  you  will 
have  patience;”  and  at  last,  notwithstanding  the 
insults  which  wrung  Cicely’s  heart,  this  savage,  too, 
was  overcome.  She  went  home  all  throbbing  and 
aching  from  this  last  conflict,  her  heart  full  of  bitter- 
ness and  those  sharp  stings  of  poverty  which  are 
so  hard  to  bear.  It  was  not  her  fault;  no  extra- 
vagance of  hers  had  swelled  those  bills;  and  how 
many  people  threw  away  every  day  much  more  than 
would  have  saved  all  that  torture  of  heart  and  mind 
to  this  helpless  and  guiltless  girl!  Mildmay  him- 
self had  paid  for  a Palissy  dish,  hideous  with  crawl- 
ing reptiles,  a great  deal  more  than  would  have 
satisfied  Wilkins  and  relieved  poor  Cicely’s  delicate 
shoulders  of  this  humiliating  burden;  but  what  of 
that?  The  young  man  whom  she  saw  in  the  dis- 
tance approaching  the  rectory  from  the  other  side 
could  at  that  moment  have  paid  every  one  of  those 
terrible  debts  that  were  crushing  Cicely,  and  never 
felt  it;  but  1 repeat,  what  of  that?  Under  no  pre- 
tence could  he  have  done  it;  nothing  in  the  world 
would  have  induced  the  proud,  delicate  girl  to 
betray  the  pangs  which  cut  her  soul.  Thus  the 
poor  and  the  rich  walk  together  shoulder  by  shoul- 
der every  day  as  if  they  were  equal,  and  one  has 


200^ 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


to  go  on  in  hopeless  labour  like  Sisyphus,  heaving 
up  the  burden  which  the  other  could  toss  into  space 
with  the  lifting  of  a finger.  So  it  is,  and  so  it  must 
be,  I suppose,  till  time  and  civilization  come  to  an 
end. 

Meanwhile  these  two  came  nearer,  approaching 
each  other  from  different  points.  And  what  Mild- 
may  saw  was  not  the  brave  but  burdened  creature 
we  know  of,  dear  reader,  bleeding  and  aching  from 
battles  more  bitter  than  Inkerman,  with  a whole 
little  world  of  helpless  beings  hanging  upon  her, 
but  only  a fresh,  bright-eyed  girl,  in  a black  and 
white  frock,  with  a black  hat  shading  her  face  from 
the  sunshine,  moving  lightly  in  the  animation  of 
her  youth  across  the  white  high  road — a creature 
full  of  delicate  strength,  and  variety,  and  bright- 
ness; like  her  mother!  Mildmay  could  not  help 
thinking  that  Mrs.  St.  John  must  have  been  a pretty 
woman,  and  there  came  a little  pang  of  sympathy 
into  his  heart  when  he  thought  of  the  grave  in  the 
twilight  where  the  curate  had  led  him,  from  which 
the  light  in  the  girls’  windows  was  always  visible, 
and  to  which  his  patient  feet  had  worn  that  path 
across  the  grass.  To  be  sure,  across  the  pathos  of 
this  picture  there  would  come  the  jar  of  that  serio- 
comic reference  to  the  other  Mrs.  St.  John,  who, 
poor  soul!  lay  neglected  down  the  other  turning. 
This  made  the  new  rector  laugh  within  himself. 
But  he  suppressed  all  signs  of  the  laugh  when  he 
came  up  to  Cicely,  who,  though  she  gave  him  a 
smile  of  greeting,  did  not  seem  in  a laughing  mood, 
She  was  the  first  to  speak. 


WHAT  THE  GIRLS  COULD  DO. 


201 


^^Have  you  left  papa  behind  you,  Mr.  Mildmay? 
He  has  always  a great  many  places  to  go  to,  and 
parish  work  is  not  pleasant  on  such  a hot  day.^^ 

Was  there  an  insinuation  in  this  that  he  had 
abandoned  the  unpleasant  work,  finding  it  uncon- 
genial to  him?  Poor  Cicely  was  sore  and  wounded, 
and  the  temptation  to  give  a passing  sting  in  her 
turn  was  great. 

^‘Mr.  St.  John  did  not  permit  me  to  try  its  plea- 
santness or  unpleasantness,”  said  Mildmay.  “Pie 
took  me  over  the  parish  indeed,  and  showed  me 
the  church  and  the  school,  and  some  other  things; 
and  then  he  left  me  at  Mr.  AscotPs.  I come  from 
the  Heath  now.” 

“Ah,  from  the  Heath?”  said  Cicely,  changing 
colour  a little,  and  looking  at  him  with  inquiring 
eyes.  What  had  they  done  or  said,  she  wondered, 
to  him?  for  she  could  not  forget  the  projected 
petition  to  the  Lord  Chancellor,  which  had  raised 
a fallacious  hope  in  their  hearts  when  she  saw  Mrs. 
Ascott  last. 

“They  have  a pretty  house,  and  they  seem 
kind  people,”  said  Mildmay,  not  knowing  what  to 
say. 

“Yes,  they  have  a pretty  house.”  Cicely  looked 
at  him  even  more  eagerly,  with  many  questions  on 
her  lips.  Had  they  said  nothing  to  him?  Had 
they  received  him  at  once  as  the  new  rector  without 
a word?  Kind!  what  did  he  mean  when  he  said 
they  were  kind?  Had  they,  too,  without  an  effort, 
without  a remonstrance,  gone  over  to  the  enemy? 
“Mr.  St.  John  somewhat  rashly  introduced  me 


202 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


as  the  new  rector,”  said  Mildmay,  “which  was  very 
premature;  and  they  knew  some  relations  of  mine. 
Miss  St.  John,  the  Ascotts  are  much  less  interesting 
to  me  than  our  conversation  of  this  morning.  Since 
then  my  mind  has  been  in  a very  confused  state. 
I can  no  longer  feel  that  anything  is  settled  about 
the  living.” 

“Didn’t  they  say  anything?”  said  Cicely,  scarcely 
listening  to  him;  “didn’t  they  make  any  objection?” 
This  was  a shock  of  a new  kind  which  she  was  not 
prepared  for.  “I  beg  your  pardon,”  she  cried; 
“they  had  no  right  to  make  any  objection;  but  didn’t 
they  say  anything  at  least — about  papa?” 

What  was  Mildmay  to  answer?  He  hesitated 
scarcely  a moment,  but  her  quick  eye  saw  it. 

“A  great  deal,”  he  said  eagerly;  “they  said,  as 
every  one  must,  that  Mr.  St.  John’s  long  devo- 
tion  ” 

“Don’t  try  to  deceive  me,”  said  Cicely,  with  a 
smile  of  desperation.  “I  see  you  do  not  mean  it. 
They  did  not  say  anything  sincere.  They  were 
delighted  to  receive  a new  rector,  a new  neighbour, 
young  and  happy  and  well  off ” 

“Miss  St.  John ” 

“Yes,  I know;  it  is  quite  natural,  quite  right. 
I have  nothing  to  say  against  *it.  Papa  has  only 
been  here  for  twenty  years,  knowing  all  their 
troubles,  doing  things  for  them  which  he  never 
would  have  done  for  himself;  but — ‘Le  roi  est 
mort;  vive  le  roi!”’  cried  the  impetuous  girl  in  a 
flash  of  passion;  in  the  strength  of  which  she  sud- 
denly calmed  down,  and,  smiling,  turned  to  him 


WIIAT  THE  GIRLS  COULD  DO. 


203 


again.  it  not  a pretty  house?  and  Mrs.  Ascott 
is  very  pretty  too — has  been,  people  say,  but  I think 
it  is  hard  to  say,  has  been.  She  is  not  young,  but 
she  has  the  beauty  of  her  age.'^ 

'‘I  take  very  little  interest  in  Mrs.  Ascott, said 
Mildmay,  “seeing  I never  saw  her  till  to-day;  but  I 
take  a great  deal  of  interest  in  what  you  were  saying 
this  morning.^’ 

“You  never  saw  any  of  us  till  yesterday,  Mr. 
Mildmay.” 

“I  suppose  that  is  quite  true.  I cannot  help  it 
— it  is  different.  Miss  St.  John,  I don’t  know  what 
you  would  think  of  the  life  I have  been  living,  but 
yours  has  had  a great  effect  upon  me.  What  am  I 
to  do?  you  have  unsettled  me,  you  have  confused 
my  mind  and  all  my  intentions.  Now  tell  me  what 
to  do.” 

“I,”  said  Cicely  aghast.  “Oh,  if  I could  only 
see  a little  in  advance,  if  I could  tell  what  to  do 
myself!” 

“You  cannot  slide  out  of  it  like  this,”  he  said; 
“nay,  pardon  me,  I don’t  mean  to  be  unkind;  but 
what  am  I to  do?” 

Cicely  looked  at  him  with  a rapid  revulsion  of 
feeling  from  indignation  to  friendliness.  “Oh,”  she 
cried,  “can’t  you  fancy  how  a poor  girl,  so  helpless 
as  I am,  is  driven  often  to  say  a great  deal  more 
than  she  means?  What  can  we  do,  we  girls? — say 
out  some  of  the  things  that  choke  us,  that  make 
our  hearts  bitter  within  us,  and  then  be  sorry  for  it 
afterwards?  that  is  all  we  are  good  for.  We  cannot 
go  and  do  things  like  you  men,  and  we  feel  all  the 


204 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


sharper,  all  the  keener,  because  we  cannot  do,  Mr. 
Mildmay,  all  that  I said  was  quite  true;  but  what 
does  that  matter?  a thing  may  be  wrong  and  false 
to  every  principle,  and  yet  it  cannot  be  helped. 
You  ought  not  to  have  the  living;  papa  ought  to 
have  it;  but  what  then?  No  one  will  give  it  to  papa, 
and  if  you  don^t  take  it  some  one  else  will;  there- 
fore, take  it,  though  it  is  wicked  and  a cruel  wrong. 
It  is  not  your  fault,  it  is — I don’t  know  whose  fault. 
One  feels  as  if  it  were  God’s  fault  sometimes,” 
cried  Cicely;  ‘‘but  that  must  be  wrong;  the  world  is 
all  wrong  and  unjust,  and  hard — hard;  only  some- 
times there  is  somebody  who  is  very  kind,  very 
good,  who  makes  you  feel  that  it  is  not  God’s  fault, 
and  you  forgive  even  the  world.” 

She  put  up  her  hand  to  wipe  the  tears  from 
those  young  shining  eyes,  which  indignation  and 
wretchedness  and  tears  only  made  the  brighter. 
Cicely  was  thinking  of  the  butcher — you  will  say 
no  very  elevated  thought.  But  Mildmay,  wondering, 
and  touched  to  the  heart,  asked  himself,  with  a 
suppressed  throb  of  emotion,  could  she  mean  him? 

“I  am  going  back  to  Oxford,”  he  said  hastily. 
“I  shall  not  go  to  town.  The  first  thing  I do  will 
be  to  see  everybody  concerned,  and  to  tell  them 
what  you  say.  Yes,  Miss  St.  John,  you  are  right; 
it  is  wicked  and  wrong  that  I or  any  one  should 
have  it  while  your  father  is  here.  I will  tell  the 
Master  so,  I will  tell  them  all  so.  It  shall  not  be 
my  fault  if  Mr.  St.  John  does  not  have  his  rights.” 
They  were  close  to  the  rectory  gate,  and  as  fire 
communicates  to  fire,  the  passionate  impulse  and 


WHAT  THE  GIRLS  COULD  DO. 


205 


fervour  of  Cicely^s  countenance  had  transferred 
themselves  to  Mr.  Mildmay,  whose  eyes  were  shin- 
ing, and  his  cheeks  flushed  with  purpose  like  her 
own.  Cicely  was  not  used  to  this  rapid  transmis- 
sion of  energy.  She  gazed  at  him  half  frightened. 
Usually  her  interlocutor  did  all  that  was  possible 
to  calm  her  down — wondered  at  her,  blamed  her  a 
little,  chilled  her  vehemence  with  surprised  or  dis- 
approving looks.  This  new  companion  who  caught 
fire  at  her  was  new  to  the  girl.  She  was  half 
alarmed  at  what  she  had  done. 

‘‘Will  you  do  so,  really?’’  she  said,  the  tears 
starting  to  her  eyes.  “O  Mr.  Mildmay,  perhaps  I 
am  wrong!  Papa  would  not  advise  you  so.  He 
would  say  he  never  asked  for  anything  in  his  life, 
and  that  he  would  not  be  a beggar  for  a living 
now.  And  think — perhaps  I should  not  have  said 
half  so  much  if  I could  have  done  anything.  I am 
too  ignorant  and  too  inexperienced  for  any  one  to 
be  guided  by  me.” 

“Yes,  you  are  ignorant,”  cried  the  young  man. 
“You  don’t  know  the  sophistries  with  which  we 
blind  ourselves  and  each  other.  You  dare  to  think 
what  is  right  and  what  is  wrong — and,  for  once  in 
my  life,  so  shall  I.” 

The  moisture  that  had  been  gathering  dropped 
all  at  once  in  two  great  unexpected  tears  out  of 
Cicely’s  eyes.  Her  face  lighted  like  the  sky  when 
the  sun  rises,  a rosy  suffusion  as  of  dawn  came 
over  her.  Her  emotion  was  so  increased  by  sur- 
prise that  even  now  she  did  not  know  what  to 
think.  In  the  least  likely  quarter  all  at  once,  in 


2o6 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


her  moment  of  need,  she  had  found  sympathy  and 
succour;  and  I think  perhaps  that  even  the  most 
strong  and  self-sustaining  do  not  know  how  much 
they  have  wanted  sympathy  and  comprehension 
until  it  comes.  It  made  Cicely  weak,  not  strong. 
She  felt  that  she  could  have  sat  down  on  the  road- 
side and  cried.  She  had  an  idiotic  impulse  to  tell 
him  everything,  and  especially  about  the  butcher — ■ 
how  kind  he  had  been.  These  impulses  passed 
through  her  mind  mechanically,  or,  as  one  ought 
to  say  nowadays,  automatically;  but  Cicely,  who 
had  no  notion  of  being  an  automaton,  crushed  them 
in  the  bud.  And  what  she  really  would  have  said 
in  the  tumult  of  her  feelings,  beyond  what  the  look 
in  her  eyes  said,  behind  the  tears,  I cannot  tell,  if 
it  had  not  been  that  the  curate  came  forth  leisurely 
at  that  moment  from  the  rectory,  making  it  neces- 
sary that  tears  and  every  other  evidence  of  emotion 
should  be  cleared  away. 

“Cicely,  it  is  just  time  for  dinner,’’  he  said. 
“You  should  not  walk,  my  dear,  in  the  heat  of  the 
day;  and  Mr.  Mildmay,  too,  must  be  tired,  and 
want  something  to  refresh  him.  It  is  a long  time 
since  breakfast,”  said  the  gentle  curate,  opening  the 
door  that  his  guest  might  precede  him.  Mr.  St. 
John  was  not  a great  eater,  but  he  had  a mild, 
regular  appetite,  and  did  not  like  any  disrespect  to 
the  dinner  hour. 


HOW  TO  EXERCISE  CHURCH  PATRONAGE.  207 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

How  to  exercise  Church  Patronnge. 


Mildmay  made  his  way  back  to  Oxford  without 
any  delay.  He  knew  that  the  Master  of  the  col- 
lege, who  was  a man  with  a family,  had  not  yet 
set  out  on  the  inevitable  autumn  tour.  But  I must 
add  that,  though  no  man  could  have  been  more 
anxious  to  obtain  preferment  in  his  own  person 
than  he  was  to  transfer  his  preferment  to  another, 
yet  various  doubts  of  the  practicability  of  what  he 
was  going  to  attempt  interfered,  as  he  got  further 
and  further  from  Brentburn,  with  the  enthusiasm 
which  had  sprung  up  so  warmly  in  Cicely^s  pre- 
sence. It  would  be  very  difficult,  he  felt,  to  convey 
to  the  Master  the  same  clear  perception  of  the 
rights  of  the  case  as  had  got  into  his  own  head  by 
what  he  had  seen  and  heard  at  the  rectory;  and  if 
all  he  made  by  his  hesitation  was  to  throw  the 
living  into  the  hands  of  Ruff  head!  For  Brentburn 
was  no  longer  an  indifferent  place — the  same  as 
any  other  in  the  estimation  of  the  young  don;  quite 
the  reverse;  it  was  very  interesting  to  him  now. 
Notwithstanding  the  bran-new  church,  he  felt  that 
no  other  parish  under  the  sun  was  half  so  attrac- 
tive. The  churchyard,  with  those  two  narrow  threads 
of  paths;  the  windows,  with  the  lights  in  them, 
which  glimmered  within  sight  of  the  grave;  the  old- 


2o8 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


fashioned,  sunny  garden;  the  red  cottages,  with  not 
one  wall  which  was  not  awry,  and  projecting  at 
every  conceivable  angle;  the  common,  with  its  flush 
of  heather — all  these  had  come  out  of  the  unknown, 
and  made  themselves  plain  and  apparent  to  him. 
He  felt  Brentburn  to  be  in  a manner  his  own;  a 
thing  which  he  would  be  willing  to  give  to  Mr.  St. 
John,  or  rather  to  lend  him  for  his  lifetime;  but  he 
did  not  feel  the  least  inclination  to  let  it  fall  into 
the  hands  of  any  other  man.  Neither  did  he  feel 
inclined  to  do  as  Mr.  Chester,  the  late  rector,  had 
done — to  expatriate  himself,  and  leave  the  work  of 
his  parish  to  the  curate  in  charge.  Besides,  he 
could  not  do  this,  for  he  was  in  perfect  health;  and 
he  could  neither  tell  the  necessary  lie  himself,  nor, 
he  thought,  get  any  doctor  to  tell  it  for  him.  As 
he  got  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  moment  which  must 
decide  all  these  uncertainties,  he  got  more  and  more 
confused  and  troubled  in  his  mind.  The  Master 
was  the  college,  as  it  happened  at  that  moment;  he 
was  by  far  the  most  influential  and  the  most  power- 
ful person  in  it;  and  what  he  said  was  the  thing 
that  would  be  done.  Mildmay  accordingly  took 
his  way  with  very  mingled  feelings,  across  the 
quadrangle  to  the  beautiful  and  picturesque  old 
house  in  which  this  potentate  dwelt.  Had  he  any 
right  to  attempt  to  make  such  a bargain  as  was  in 
his  mind?  It  was  enough  that  the  living  had 
been  offered  to  him.  What  had  he  to  say  but  yes 
or  no? 

The  Master^s  house  was  in  a state  of  confusion 
when  Mildmay  entered  it  The  old  hall  was  full 


HOW  TO  EXERCISE  CHURCH  PATRONAGE.  20Q 

of  trunks,  the  oaken  staircase  encumbered  with 
servants  and  young  people  running  up  and  down 
in  all  the  bustle  of  a move.  Eight  children  of  all 
ages,  and  half  as  many  servants,  was  the  Master — 
brave  man! — about  to  carry  off  to  Switzerland. 
The  packing  was  terrible,  and  not  less  terrible  the 
feelings  of  the  heads  of  the  expedition,  who  were 
at  that  moment  concluding  their  last  calculation  of 
expenses,  and  making  up  little  bundles  of  circular 
notes,  ‘‘Here  is  Mr.  Mildmay,’’  said  the  Master’s 
wife,  “and,  thank  Heaven!  this  reckoning  up  is 
over;”  and  she  escaped  with  a relieved  countenance, 
giving  the  new  comer  a smile  of  gratitude.  The 
head  of  the  college  was  slightly  flustrated,  if  such 
a vulgar  word  can  be  used  of  such  a sublime 
person.  I hope  no  one  will  suspect  me  of  Ro- 
manizing tendencies,  but  perhaps  a pale  ecclesiastic, 
worn  with  thought,  and  untroubled  by  children, 
would  have  been  more  like  the  typical  head  of  a 
college  than  this  comely  yet  careworn  papa.  The 
idea,  however,  flashed  through  Mildmay’s  mind, 
who  had  the  greatest  reverence  for  the  Master,  that 
these  very  cares,  this  evident  partaking  of  human 
nature’s  most  ordinary  burdens,  would  make  the 
great  don  feel  for  the  poor  curate.  Does  not  a 
touch  of  nature  make  the  whole  world  kin? 

“Well,  Mildmay,”  said  the  Master,  “come  to 
say  good-bye?  You  are  just  in  time.  We  are  off 
to-night  by  the  Antwerp  boat,  which  we  have  de- 
cided is  the  best  way  with  our  enormous  party.” 
Here  the  good  man  sighed.  “Where  are  you 
going?  You  young  fellows  don’t  know  you’re  born, 

The  Cttraie  in  Chaj-^e, 


210 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


as  people  say — coming  and  going,  whenever  the 
fancy  seizes  you,  as  light  as  a bird.  Ah!  wait  till 
you  have  eight  children,  my  dear  fellow,  to  drag 
about  the  world.’' 

^‘That  could  not  be  for  some  time,  at  least,” 
said  Mildmay,  with  a laugh;  ‘‘but  I am  not  so  dis- 
interested in  my  visit  as  to  have  come  merely  to 
say  good-bye.  I wanted  to  speak  to  you  about 
Brentburn.” 

“Ah — oh,”  said  the  Master;  “to  be  sure,  your 
living.  You  have  been  to  see  it?  Well!  and  how 
do  you  think  it  will  feel  to  be  an  orderly  rector, 
setting  a good  example,  instead  of  enjoying  your- 
self, and  collecting  crockery  here?” 

That  was  a cruel  speech,  and  Mildmay  grew  red 
at  the  unworthy  title  crockery;  but  the  Master’s 
savage  sentiments  on  this  subject  were  known. 
What  is  a man  with  eight  children  to  be  expected 
to  know  about  rare  china? 

“I  believe  there  are  much  better  collections 
than  mine  in  some  country  rectories,”  he  said; 
“but,  never  mind;  I want  to  speak  to  you  of  some- 
thing more  interesting  than  crockery.  I do  not 
think  I can  take  Brentburn.” 

The  Master  framed  his  lips  into  that  shape 
which  in  a profane  and  secular  person  would  have 
produced  a whistle  of  surprise.  “So!”  he  said, 
“you  don’t  like  it?  But  I thought  you  were  set 
upon  it.  All  the  better  for  poor  Ruff  head,  who 
will  now  be  able  to  marry  after  all.” 

“That  is  just  what  I wanted  to  speak  to  you 
about,”  said  Mildmay,  embarrassed.  “I  don’t  want 


HOW  TO  EXERCISE  CHURCH  PATRONAGE.  2 I I 


It  to  fall  to  Ruffhead.  lasten,  before  you  say  any- 
thing! I don't  want  to  play  the  part  of  the  dog  in 
the  manger,  Ruff  head  is  young,  and  so  am  I;  but, 
my  dear  Master,  listen  to  me.  The  curate  in 
charge,  Mr.  St.  John,  is  not  young;  he  has  been 
twenty  years  at  Brentburn,  a laborious  excellent 
clergyman.  Think  how  it  would  look  in  any  other 
profession,  if  either  Ruffhead  or  I should  thus  step 
over  his  head." 

^‘The  curate  in  charge!"  said  the  Master,  be- 
wildered. “What  are  you  talking  about?  What 
has  he  to  do  with  it?  I know  nothing  about  your 
curate  in  charge." 

“Of  course  you  don't;  and  therefore  there 
seemed  to  be  some  hope  in  coming  to  tell  you. 
He  is  a member  of  our  own  college;  that  of  itself 
is  something.  He  used  to  know  you,  he  says,  long 
ago,  when  he  was  an  undergraduate.  He  has  been 
Chester's  curate  at  Brentburn,  occupying  the  place 
of  the  incumbent,  and  doing  everything  for  twenty 
years;  and  now  that  Chester  is  dead,  there  is  no- 
thing for  him  but  to  be  turned  out  at  a moment's 
notice,  and  to  seek  his  bread,  at  over  sixty,  some- 
where else — and  he  has  children  too." 

This  last  sentence  was  added  at  a venture  to 
touch  the  Master's  sympathies;  but  I don't  think 
that  dignitary  perceived  the  application;  for  what  is 
there  in  common  between  the  master  of  a college 
and  a poor  curate?  He  shook  his  head  with,  how- 
ever, that  sympathetic  gravity  and  deference  to- 
wards misfortune  which  no  man  who  respects  him- 
self ever  refuses  to  show. 


14 


212 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


‘‘St.  John,  St.  John?”  he  said.  “Yes,  I think  I 
recollect  the  name:  very  tall — stoops — a peaceable 
sort  of  being?  Yes.  So  he’s  Chester’s  curate? 
Who  would  have  thought  it?  I suppose  he  started 
in  life  as  well  as  Chester  did,  or  any  of  us.  What 
has  possessed  him  to  stay  so  long  there?” 

“Well — he  is,  as  you  say,  a peaceable,  mild 

man;  not  one  to  push  himself ” 

‘‘Push  himself!”  cried  the  Master;  “not  much 
of  that,  I should  think.  But  even  if  you  don’t 
push  yourself,  you  needn’t  stay  for  twenty  years  a 
curate.  What  does  he  mean  by  it?  I am  afraid 
there  must  be  something  wrong.” 

“And  I am  quite  sure  there  is  nothing  wrong,” 
cried  Mildmay,  warmly,  “unless  devotion  to  thank- 
less work,  and  forgetfulness  of  self  is  wrong;  for 
that  is  all  his  worst  enemy  can  lay  to  his  charge.” 
“You  are  very  warm  about  it,”  said  the  Master, 
with  some  surprise;  “which  does  you  credit,  Mild- 
may. But,  my  dear  fellow,  what  do  you  expect  me 
— what  do  you  expect  the  college  to  do?  We 
can’t  provide  for  our  poor  members  who  let  them- 
selves drop  out  of  sight  and  knowledge.  Perhaps 
if  you  don’t  take  the  living,  and  Ruffhead  does,  you 
might  speak  to  him  to  keep  your  friend  on  as 
curate.  But  I have  nothing  to  do  with  that  kind 
of  arrangement.  And  I’m  sure  you  will  excuse  me 
when  I tell  you  we  start  to-night.” 

“Master,”  said  Mildmay  solemnly,  “when  you 
hear  of  a young  colonel  of  thirty  promoted  over 
the  head  of  an  old  captain  of  twice  his  age,  what 
do  you  say?” 


HOW  TO  EXERCISE  CHURCH  PATRONAGE.  21 S 

^‘Say,  sir!”  cried  the  Master,  whose  sentiments 
on  this,  as  on  most  other  subjects,  were  well 
known;  “say!  why  I say  it’s  a disgrace  to  the 
country.  I say  it’s  the  abominable  system  of 
purchase  which  keeps  our  best  soldiers  languishing. 
Pray,  what  do  you  mean  by  that  smile?  You  know 
I have  no  patience  to  discuss  such  a question;  and 
I cannot  see  what  it  has  to  do  with  what  we  were 
talking  of,”  he  added  abruptly,  breaking  off  with  a 
look  of  defiance,  for  he  suddenly  saw  the  mistake 
he  had  made  in  Mildmay’s  face. 

“Hasn’t  it?”  said  the  other.  “If  you  will  think 
a moment — Ruffhead  and  I are  both  as  innocent 
of  parochial  knowledge  as — as  little  Ned  there.” 
(Ned  at  this  moment  had  come  to  the  window 
which  opened  upon  the  garden,  and,  knocking  with 
impatient  knuckles,  had  summoned  his  father  out.) 
Mr.  St.  John  has  some  thirty  years’  experience,  and 
is  thoroughly  known  and  loved  by  the  people. 
What  can  anybody  think — what  Can  any  one  say — 
if  one  of  us  miserable  subalterns  is  put  over  that 
veteran’s  head?  Where  but  in  the  Church  could 
such  a thing  be  done — without  at  least  such  a 
clamour  as  would  set  half  England  by  the  ears?” 

“Softly,  softly,”  cried  the  Master.  “(Get  away, 
you  little  imp.  I’ll  come  presently.)  You  mustn’t 
abuse  the  Church,  Mildmay.  Our  arrangements 
may  be  imperfect,  as  indeed  all  arrangements  are 
which  are  left  in  human  hands.  But,  depend  upon 
it,  the  system  is  the  best  that  could  be  devised; 
and  there  is  no  real  analogy  between  the  two  pro- 
fessions. A soldier  is  helpless  who  can  only  buy 


214 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


his  promotion,  and  has  no  money  to  buy  it  with. 
But  a clergyman  has  a hundred  ways  of  making 
his  qualifications  known,  and  as  a matter  of  fact  I 
think  preferment  is  very  justly  distributed.  I have 
known  dozens  of  men,  with  no  money  and  very 
little  influence,  whose  talents  and  virtues  alone — 
but  you  must  know  that  as  well  as  I do.  In  this 
case  there  must  be  something  behind — something 
wrong — extreme  indolence,  or  incapacity,  or  some- 
thing  ” 

''There  is  nothing  but  extreme  modesty,  and  a 
timid  retiring  disposition.” 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,”  cried  the  Master;  "these  are  the 
pretty  names  for  it.  Indolence  which  does  nothing 
for  itself,  and  bangs  a dead  weight  upon  friends. 
Now,  tell  me  seriously  and  soberly,  why  do  you 
come  to  me  with  this  story?  What,  in  such  a case, 
do  you  suppose  I can  do?” 

"If  you  were  a private  patron,”  said  Mildmay, 
"I  should  say  boldy,  I have  come  to  ask  you  to 
give  this  living  to  the  best  man — the  man  who  has 
a right  to  it;  not  a new  man  going  to  try  experi- 
ments like  myself,  but  one  who  knows  what  he  is 
doing,  who  has  done  all  that  has  been  done  there 
for  twenty  years.  I would  say  you  were  bound  to 
exercise  your  private  judgment  on  behalf  of  the 
parish  in  preference  to  all  promises  or  supposed 
rights;  and  that  you  should  offer  the  living  of 
Brentburn  to  Mr.  St.  John  without  an  hour’s  delay.” 

"That  is  all  very  well,”  said  the  Master,  scratch- 
ing his  head,  as  if  he  had  been  a rustic  clodhopper, 
instead  of  a learned  and  accomplished  scholar, 


HOW  TO  EXERCISE  CHURCH  PATRONAGE.  ^15 

“and  very  well  put,  and  perhaps  true.  I say,  per- 
haps true,  for  of  course  this  is  only  one  side  of  the 
question.  But  I am  not  a private  patron.  I am 
only  a sort  of  trustee  of  the  patronage,  exercising 
it  in  conjunction  with  various  other  people.  Come, 
Mildmay,  you  know  as  well  as  I do,  poor  old  St. 
John,  though  his  may  be  a hard  case,  has  no  claim 
whatever  upon  the  college;  and  if  you  don’t  accept 
it,  there’s  Ruffhead  and  two  or  three  others  who 
have  a right  to  their  chance.  You  may  be  sure 
Ruffhead  won’t  give  up  his  chance  of  marriage  and 
domestic  bliss  for  any  poor  curate.  Of  course  the 
case,  as  you  state  it,  is  hard.  What  does  the  parish 
say?” 

“The  parish!  I was  not  there  long  enough  to 
find  out  the  opinion  of  the  parish.” 

“Ah,  you  hesitate.  Look  here,  Mildmay;  if  I 
were  a betting  man,  I’d  give  you  odds,  or  whatever 
you  call  it, 'that  the  parish  would  prefer  you.” 

“It  is  impossible;  or,  if  they  did,  it  would  only 
be  a double  wrong.”  But  Mildmay’s  voice  was  not 
so  confident  as  when  he  had  been  pleading  Mr.  St. 
John’s  cause,  and  his  eyes  fell  before  the  Master’s 
penetrating  eyes. 

“A  wrong  if  you  like,  but  it’s  human  nature,” 
said  the  Master,  with  some  triumph.  “I  will  speak 
to  the  Dean  about  it,  if  I see  him  this  afternoon, 
and  I’ll  speak  to  Singleton.  If  they  think  anything 
of  your  arguments,  I shan’t  oppose.  But  I warn 
you  I don’t  think  it  the  least  likely.  His  age,  if 
there  were  nothing  else,  is  against  him,  rather  than 


2i6 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


in  his  favour.  We  don’t  want  parishes  hampered 
with  an  old  man  past  work.” 

^‘He  is  just  as  old  being  curate  as  if  he  were 
rector.” 

“Yes,  yes.  But  to  give  him  the  living  now,  at 
his  age,  would  be  to  weight  the  parish  with  him  till 
he  was  a hundred,  and  destroy  the  chance  for  young 
men  like  yourself.  You  don’t  mind,  but  I can  tell 
you  Ruff  head  does.  No,  no.  Singleton  will  never 
hear  of  it;  and  what  can  I do?  I am  going  away.” 
“Singleton  will  do  whatever  you  tell  him,”  said 
Mildmay;  “and  you  could  write  even  though  you 
are  going  away.” 

“Hush,  hush,”  said  the  Master,  with  a half 
laugh,  “that  is  all  a popular  delusion.  Singleton 
is  the  most  independent-minded  man  I know — and 
the  others  are  as  obstinate  as  pigs.  Talk  of  turning 
them  as  one  likes!  Poor  old  St.  John,  though!  we 
might  hear  of  another  place  to  suit  him,  perhaps. 
He  has  something  of  his  own,  I suppose — some 
private  income?  How  many  children  has  he?  of 
course,  being  only  a curate,  he  must  have  heaps  of 
children.  (Coming,  you  rascal!  coming,  Ned.)” 

“He  has  t\yo  daughters  grown  up,”  said  Mild- 
may, “and  two  small  children;  and  so  far  as  I can 

judge  is What  is  there  to  laugh  at?”  he  added, 

with  a look  of  the  greatest  surprise. 

“So,  so;  he  has  daughters said  the  Master, 
with  a burst  of  genial  laughter.  “That  is  it?  Don’t 
blush,  my  dear  fellow;  as  good  men  as  you  have 
been  in  the  same  predicament.  Go  and  marry  her, 
which  will  be  much  more  sensible;  and  I hope  Miss 


HOW  TO  EXERCISE  CHURCH  PATRONAGE.  217 

St.  John  is  everything  that  is  pretty  and  charming 
for  your  sake.” 

Perhaps  Mildmay  blushed,  but  he  was  not  aware 
of  it.  He  felt  himself  grow  pale  in  a white  heat 
of  passion.  ‘‘This  is  a very  poor  joke,”  he  said. 
“Excuse  me,  Master,  if  I must  say  so.  I speak  to 
you  of  an  injury  to  the  Church,  and  a serious 
wrong  to  one  of  her  priests,  and  you  answer  me 
with  a jest  most  inappropriate  to  the  occasion.  I 
saw  Miss — I mean  Mr.  St.  John  and  his  family  for 
the  first  time  two  days  ago.  Personal  feeling  of 
any  kind  has  not  been  my  inducement  to  make 
this  appeal  to  your  sense  of  justice.  But  I have 
made  a mistake,  it  seems.  Good  morning!  I will 
not  detain  you  more.” 

“Why,  Mildmay!  a man  may  have  his  joke. 
Don’t  take  it  in  this  tragical  way.  And  don’t  be 
so  withering  in  your  irony  about  my  sense  of 
justice,”  said  the  Master,  with  a laugh,  half  apo- 
logetic, half  angry.  But  he  did  not  ask  the  young 
man  to  sit  down  again.  “Justice  goes  both  ways,” 
he  added;  “and  I have  justice  to  the  college,  and 
justice  to  its  more  distinguished  members,  and  even 
to  the  parish,  for  whose  good  we  are  called  upon 
to  act — to  consider;  as  well  as  justice  to  Mr.  St. 
John,  which  really  is  not  our  affair.  But,  my  dear 
follow,  all  this  is  very  admirable  in  you — and  don’t 
think  I fail  to  see  that,  though  you  say  I made  a 
poor  joke.  Yes,  I am  in  a hurry,  there  is  no  deny- 
ing it;  but  Pll  see  Singleton,  and  leave  the  matter 
in  his  hands.  Meet  you  in  the  Oberland,  eh?  My 


2i8 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


wife  talks  of  St.  Moritz,  but  we  never  can  drag  the 
children  all  that  way.  Good-bye.’^ 

Mildmay  marched  out  of  the  old  house  with  all 
his  pulses  tingling.  It  seemed  to  him  that  poor 
Cicely,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  anxieties  that  lurked 
in  her  young  eyes,  had  been  insulted.  Was  it  that 
sort  of  folly  he  was  thinking  of,  or  she,  poor  girl, 
who  had  said  nothing  to  him  but  reproaches?  But 
yet,  I will  allow,  that  absolutely  innocent  as  he  felt 
of  any  such  levity,  the  accusation  excited  him  more, 
perhaps,  than  was  needful.  He  could  not  forget 
or  forgive  it,  as  one  forgives  a sorry  jest  at  one’s 
own  expense,  the  reason  being,  he  said  to  himself, 
that  it  was  an  insult  to  her,  and  that  this  insult 
had  come  upon  a young  innocent  creature  through 
him,  which  was  doubly  hard.  He  was  still  tingling 
with  this  blow,  when  he  met  his  second  in  succes- 
sion, so  to  speak,  Mr.  Ruffhead,  who  was  serving  a 
curacy  near  Oxford,  and  who  had  a slight  unspoken, 
unacknowledged  grudge  at  his  brother  Fellow  who 
had  been  preferred  before  himself.  Mildmay,  in 
his  excitement,  laid  hold  upon  this  probable  heir  of 
his,  in  case  he  should  give  up  Brentburn,  and  poured 
the  whole  story  into  his  ears,  asking  with  some 
heat  and  passion  for  his  advice.  I don’t  see  how 
I can  take  the  living  over  Mr.  St.  John’s  head; 
it  seems  to  me  the  most  terrible  injustice,”  he 
cried. 

Mr.  Ruffhead  shook  his  head. 

“You  must  not  ask  my  advice,”  said  that  sen- 
sible person.  “If  you  don’t  take  it,  and  it’s  offered 
to  me,  I shall  of  course.  I don’t  know  Mr.  St. 


HOW  TO  EXERCISE  CHURCH  PATRONAGE.  2 IQ 

John,  and  if  one  neglected  one^s  own  interests  for 
every  hard  case  one  heard  of,  where  would  one  be? 
I can^t  afford  to  play  with  my  chances.  I daresay 
you  think  I am  very  hard-hearted;  but  that  is  what 
I should  do.’^ 

This  plain  declaration  of  sentiment  subdued 
Mildmay,  and  brought  him  back  to  matters  of  fact. 
‘T  suppose  you  are  right;  but  I have  not  made  up 
my  mind  to  decline  the  living,’’  he  said  coldly,  and 
did  not  ask  Ruffhead  to  dinner  as  he  had  at  first 
intended.  No  man,  they  say,  likes  his  heir,  and 
this  kind  of  inheritance  was  doubly  disagreeable  to 
think  of.  Certainly,  if  the  only  alternative  was 
Ruffhead  and  his  honeymooning  (which  somehow 
it  disgusted  Mildmay  to  think  of,  as  of  something 
almost  insulting  to  himself),  it  would  be  better, 
much  better,  that  he  himself  should  take  Brent- 
burn.  He  would  not  give  it  up  only  to  see  it 
passed  on  to  this  commonplace  fellow,  to  enable 
him,  forsooth,  to  marry  some  still  more  common- 
place woman.  Good  heavens!  was  that  the  way  to 
traffic  with  a cure  of  souls?  He  went  back  to  his 
beautiful  rooms  in  a most  disturbed  state  of  mind, 
and  drew  up  im.patiently  the  blinds  which  were  not 
intended  to  be  drawn  up.  The  hot  August  light 
came  in  scorching  and  broad  over  all  his  delights, 
and  made  him  loathe  them;  he  tripped  upon,  and 
kicked  away  to  the  end  of  the  room,  a rug  for 
which  you  or  I,  dear  reader,  would  have  given  one 
of  our  ears;  and  jerked  his  Italian  tapestry  to  one 
side,  and  I think,  if  good  sense  had  not  restrained 
him,  would  have  liked  to  take  up  his  very  best  bit 


220 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


of  china  and  smash  it  into  a hundred  pieces.  But 
after  a while  he  smiled  at  himself,  and  reduced  the 
blaze  of  daylight  to  a proper  artistic  tone,  and 
tried  to  eat  some  luncheon.  Yesterday  at  the  same 
hour  he  had  shared  the  curate’s  dinner,  with  Cicely 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  looking  at  him  with  sweet 
eyes,  in  which  there  was  still  the  dewy  look  of  past 
tears.  She  had  the  house  and  all  its  cares  upon 
her  delicate  shoulders,  that  girl;  and  her  innocent 
name  had  been  made  the  subject  of  a jest — 
through  him! 


CHAPTER  XV. 

The  Artist  and  the  Housekeeper. 

I DO  not  suppose  that  Cicely  St.John  had  really 
any  hope  in  her  new  acquaintance,  or  believed, 
when  she  looked  at  the  matter  reasonably,  that  his 
self-renunciation,  if  he  had  the  strength  of  mind  to 
carry  it  out,  would  really  secure  for  her  father  the 
living  of  Brentburn.  But  yet  a certain  amount  of 
faith  is  natural  at  her  years,  and  she  was  vaguely 
strengthened  and  exhilarated  by  that  suppressed 
expectation  of  something  pleasant  that  might  pos- 
sibly happen,  which  is  so  great  an  element  in  human 
happiness;  and,  with  this  cpmfort  in  her  soul,  went 
about  her  work,  preparing  for  the  worst,  which,  to 
be  sure,  notwithstanding  her  hope,  was,  she  felt, 
inevitable.  Mab,  when  the  stranger’s  enthusiastic 
adoption  of  her  sister’s  suggestion  was  told  to  her, 


THE  ARTIST  AND  THE  HOUSEKEEPER. 


221 


accepted  it  for  her  part  with  delight,  as  a thing 
settled.  A true  artist  has  always  more  or  less  a 
practical  mind.  However  strong  his  imagination 
may  be,  he  does  not  confine  himself  to  fancies,  or 
even  words,  but  makes  something  tangible  and 
visible  out  of  it,  and  this  faculty  more  or  less  shapes 
the  fashion  of  his  thinking.  Mab,  who  possessed 
in  addition  that  delightful  mixture  of  matter-of- 
factness  which  is  peculiar  to  womankind,  seized 
upon  the  hope  and  made  it  into  reality.  She  went 
to  her  work  as  gaily  as  if  all  the  clouds  had  been 
in  reality  dispersed  from  her  path.  This  time  it 
was  little  Annie,  the  nurse-maid — Cicely  having 
interfered  to  protect  the  babies  from  perpetual 
posing — who  supplied  her  with  the  necessary  “life.’' 
Annie  did  not  much  like  it.  She  would  have  been 
satisfied,  indeed,  and  even  proud,  had  “her  picture” 
been  taken  in  her  best  frock,  with  all  her  Sunday 
ribbons;  but  to  be  thrust  into  a torn  old  dingy 
garment,  with  bare  feet,  filled  the  little  handmaiden 
with  disgust  and  rage  great  enough  for  a full-grown 
woman.  “Folks  will  think  as  I hain’t  got  no  decent 
clothes,”  she  said;  and  Mab’s  injudicious  consola- 
tion, to  the  effect  that  “folks  would  never  see  the 
picture,”  did  not  at  all  mend  the  matter.  Cicely, 
however,  drew  up  her  slight  person,  and  “looked 
Miss  St.  John,”  according  to  Mab’s  description;  and 
Annie  was  cowed.  There  were  at  least  twenty 
different  representations  in  Mab’s  sketch-books  of 
moments  in  which  Cicely  had  looked  Miss  St.John; 
and  it  was  Mab’s  conviction  in  life  as  well  as  in 
art  that  no  opponent  could  stand  before  such  a 


222 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


demonstration.  Barefooted,  in  her  ragged  frock, 
Annie  did  not  look  an  amiable  young  person,  which, 
I am  ashamed  to  say,  delighted  the  artist.  ^^She 
will  do  for  the  naughty  little  girl  in  the  fairy  tale, 
the  one  with  toads  and  frogs  dropping  from  her 
lips,”  cried  Mab,  in  high  glee.  “And  if  it  comes 
well  I shall  send  it  to  Mr.  Mildmay,  to  show  we 
feel  how  kind  he  is.” 

“Wait  till  he  has  been  kind,”  said  Cicely,  shak- 
ing her  head.  “I  always  liked  the  naughty  little 
girl  best,  not  that  complacent  smiling  creature  who 
knew  she  had  been  good,  and  whom  everybody 
praised.  Oh,  what  a pity  that  the  world  is  not  like 
a fairy  tale!  where  the  good  are  always  rewarded, 
and  even  the  naughty,  when  they  are  sorry.  If  we 
were  to  help  any  number  of  old  women,  what  would 
it  matter  now?” 

“But  I suppose,”  said  Mab,  somewhat  wistfully, 
for  she  distrusted  her  sister's  words,  which  she  did 
not  understand,  and  was  afraid  people  might  think 
Cicely  Broad  Church,  “I  suppose  whatever  may 
happen  in  the  meantime,  it  all  comes  right  in  the 
end?” 

“Papa  is  not  so  very  far  from  the  end,  and  it 
has  not  come  right  for  him.” 

“O  Cicely,  how  can  you  talk  so!  Papa  is  not 
so  old.  He  will  live  years  and  years  yet!”  cried 
Mab,  her  eyes  filling. 

“I  hope  so.  Oh,  I hope  so!  I did  not  think 
of  merely  living.  But  he  cannot  get  anything  very 
great  now,  can  he,  to  make  up  for  so  long  waiting? 
So  long — longer,”  said  Cicely,  with  a little  awe. 


THE  ARTIST  AND  THE  HOUSEKEEPER. 


223 


thinking  of  that  enormous  lapse  of  time,  ‘Hhan  we 
have  been  alive!” 

^‘If  he  gets  the  living,  he  will  not  want  anything 
more,”  said  Mab,  blithely  working  away  with  her 
charcoal.  ‘^How  delightful  it  will  be!  More  than 
double  what  we  have  now?  Fancy!  After  all,  you 
will  be  able  to  furnish  as  you  said.” 

^‘But  not  in  amber  satin,”  said  Cicely,  beguiled 
into  a smile. 

^‘In  soft,  soft  Venetian  stuff,  half  green,  half 
blue,  half  no  colour  at  all.  Ah!  she  has  moved! 
Cicely,  Cicely,  go  and  talk  to  her,  for  heaven’s  sake, 
or  my  picture  will  be  spoilt!” 

‘‘If  you  please,  miss,  I can’t  stop  here  no  longer. 
It’s  time  as  I was  looking  after  the  children.  How 
is  Betsy  to  remember  in  the  middle  of  her  cooking 
the  right  time  to  give  ’em  their  cod-liver  oil?” 

“I’ll  go  and  look  after  the  children,”  said  Cicely. 
“What  you  have  got  to  do,  Annie,  is  to  stop  here.” 
Upon  which  Annie  burst  into  floods  of  tears, 
and  fell  altogether  out  of  pose.  “There  ain’t  no 
justice  in  it!”  she  said.  “I’m  put  up  here  to  look 
like  a gipsy  or  a beggar ; and  mother  will  never  get 
over  it,  after  all  her  slaving  and  toiling  to  get  me 
decent  clothes!” 

Thus  it  will  be  perceived  that  life  studies  in 
the  domestic  circle  are  very  difficult  to  manage. 
After  a little  interval  of  mingled  coaxing  and  scold- 
ing, something  like  the  lapsed  attitude  was  re- 
covered, and  Annie  brought  back  into  obedience. 
“If  you  will  be  good.  I’ll  draw  a picture  of  you  in 
your  Sunday  frock  to  give  to  your  mother,”  said 


224 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


Mab — a promise  which  had  too  good  an  effect  upon 
her  model,  driving  away  the  clouds  from  her  coun- 
tenance; and  Cicely  went  away  to  administer  the 
cod-liver  oil.  It  was  not  a very  delightful  office, 
and  I think  that  now  and  then,  at  this  crisis,  it 
seemed  to  Cicely  that  Mab  had  the  best  of  it,  with 
her  work,  which  was  a delight  to  her,  and  which 
occupied  both  her  mind  and  her  fingers;  care 
seemed  to  fly  the  moment  she  got  that  charcoal  in 
her  hand.  There  was  no  grudge  in  this  sense  of 
disadvantage.  Nature  had  done  it,  against  which 
there  is  no  appeal.  I don’t  think,  however,  that 
care  would  have  weighed  heavily  on  Mab,  even  if 
she  had  not  been  an  artist.  She  would  have  hung 
upon  Cicely  all  the  same  if  her  occupation  had 
been  but  needlework,  and  looked  for  ev/Crything 
from  her  hands. 

But  it  was  not  until  Annie  was  released,  and 
could  throw  off  the  ragged  frock  in  which  she  had 
been  made  picturesque,  and  return  to  her  charge, 
that  Cicely  could  begin  the  more  important  busi- 
ness that  waited  for  her.  She  took  this  quite 
quietly,  not  thinking  it  necessary  to  be  on  the  look- 
out for  a grievance,  and  took  her  work  into  the 
nursery,  where  the  two  babies  were  playing  in  a 
solemn  sort  of  way.  They  had  their  playthings 
laid  out  upon  the  floor,  and  had  some  mild  little 
squabbles  over  them.  ‘‘Zat’s  Harry’s!”  she  heard 
again  and  again,  mingled  with  faint  sounds  of  re- 
sistance. The  children  were  very  mysterious  to 
Cicely.  She  was  half  afraid  of  them  as  mystic  in- 
comprehensible creatures,  to  whom  everybody  in 


THE  ARTIST  AND  THE  HOUSEKEEPER.  22$ 

heaven  and  earth  did  injustice.  After  a while  she 
put  down  her  work  and  watched  them  play.  They 
had  a large  box  of  bricks  before  them,  playthings 
which  Cicely  herself  well  remembered,  and  the  play 
seemed  to  consist  in  one  little  brother  diving  into 
the  long  box  in  search  of  one  individual  brick, 
which,  when  he  produced  it,  the  other  snatched  at, 
saying,  ‘‘ZaUs  Harry^s.”  Charley,  who  wanted  both 
his  hands  to  swim  with  on  the  edge  of  the  box, 
did  not  have  his  thumb  in  his  mouth  this  time;  but 
he  was  silenced  by  the  unvarying  claim.  They  did 
not  laugh,  nor  did  they  cry,  as  other  children  do; 
but  sat  over  the  box  of  bricks,  in  a dumb  conflict, 
of  which  it  was  impossible  to  tell  whether  it  was 
strife  or  play. 

^^Are  they  all  Harry’s?’’  asked  Cicely,  suddenly 
moved  to  interfere.  The  sound  of  the  voice  startled 
the  little  creatures  on  the  floor.  They  turned  right 
round,  and  contemplated  her  from  the  carpet  with 
round  and  wondering  eyes. 

“Zat’s  Harry’s,”  said  the  small  boy  over  again 
with  the  iteration  common  to  children.  Charley 
was  not  prepared  with  any  reply.  He  put  his  thumb 
into  his  mouth  in  default  of  any  more  extended  ex- 
planation. Cicely  repeated  her  question — I fear 
raising  her  voice,  for  patience  was  not  Cicely’s 
forte;  whereupon  Harry’s  eyes,  who  was  the  boldest, 
got  bigger  and  bigger,  and  redder  and  redder,  with 
fright,  and  Charley  began  to  whimper.  This  irri- 
tated the  sister  much.  “You  little  silly  things!” 
she  said,  “I  am  not  scolding  you.  What  are  you 
crying  for?  Come  here,  Harry,  and  tell  me  why 

The  Curate  in  Charge.  1 5 


226 


TPIE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


you  take  all  the  bricks?  They  are  Charley^s 
too.'' 

Children  are  the  angels  of  life;  but  they  are 
sometimes  little  demons  for  all  that.  To  see  these 
two  pale  little  creatures  sitting  half  dead  with  fright, 
gazing  at  her  sunny  young  countenance  as  if  she 
were  an  ogre,  exasperated  Cicely.  She  jumped  up, 
half  laughing,  half  furious,  and  at  that  movement 
the  babies  set  up  a unanimous  howl  of  terror.  This 
fairly  daunted  her,  courageous  as  she  was.  She  went 
back  to  her  seat  again,  having  half  a mind  to  cry 
too.  ‘T  am  not  going  to  touch  you,^^  said  Cicely 
piteously.  ^‘Why  are  you  frightened  at  me?  If  you 
will  come  here  I will  tell  you  a story She  was 
too  young  to  have  the  maternal  instinct  so  warmly 
developed  as  to  make  her  all  at  once,  without 
rhyme  or  reason,  “fond  of’’  her  little  half-brothers; 
but  she  was  anxious  to  do  her  duty,  and  deeply 
wounded  that  they  did  not  “take  to  her.”  Chil- 
dren, she  said  to  herself  with  an  internal  whisper 
of  self-pity,  had  always  taken  to  her  before;  and 
she  was  not  aware  of  that  instinctive  resistance, 
half  defiance,  half  fright,  which  seems  to  repel  the 
child-dependent  from  those  whose  duty  it  is  to 
take  care  of  it — most  unreasonable,  often  most 
cruel,  but  yet  apparently  most  universal  of  senti- 
ments. Is  it  that  the  very  idea  of  benefactor,  even 
before  the  mind  is  capable  of  comprehending  what 
it  is,  sets  nature  on  edge?  This  was  rather  a hard 
lesson  for  the  girl,  especially  as,  while  they  were 
still  howling,  little  Annie  burst  in  indignant,  and 
threw  herself  down  beside  the  children,  who  clung 


THE  ARTIST  AND  THE  HOUSEKEEPER.  227 

to  her,  sobbing,  one  on  each  side.  “You  have 
made  ^em  cry,  miss,”  cried  Annie,  “and  missuses 
orders  was  as  they  was  never  to  be  allowed  to  cry. 
It  is  very  dangerous  for  boys;  it  busts  their  little 
insides.  Did  she  frighten  ’em,  then?  the  naughty 
lady.  Never  mind,  never  mind,  my  precious!  An- 
nie’s here.” 

To  see  this  child  spread  out  upon  the  floor  with 
these  chicks  under  her  wings  would  have  been 
amusing  to  a cool  spectator.  But  Cicely  did  not 
take  it  in  that  light.  She  waited  till  the  children 
were  pacified,  and  had  returned  to  their  play,  and 
then  she  took  the  little  nursemaid  by  the  arm,  and 
led  her  to  the  door.  “You  are  not  to  enter  this 
room  again  or  come  near  the  children,”  she  said, 
in  a still  voice  which  made  Annie  tremble.  “If 
you  make  a noise  I will  beat  you.  Go  down- 
stairs to  your  sister,  and  I will  see  you  afterwards. 
Not  a word!  I have  nothing  more  to  say  to  you 
here.” 

Cicely  went  back  again  to  her  seat  trembling 
with  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  and  then  said 
to  herself,  what  a fool  she  was!  but,  oh!  what  a 
much  greater  fool  Miss  Brown  had  been  to  leave 
this  legacy  of  trouble  to  two  girls  who  had  never 
done  any  harm  to  her.  “Though,  I suppose,”  Cicely 
added  to  herself  with  a sense  of  justice,  “she  was 
not  thinking  about  us.”  And  indeed  it  was  not 
likely  that  poor  Mrs.  St.  John  had  brought  these 
babies  into  the  world  solely  to  bother  her  husband’s 
daughters.  Poor  Cicely,  who  had  a thousand  other 
things  to  do,  and  who  already  felt  that  it  was  im- 


228 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


politic,  though  necessary,  to  dismiss  Annie,  pon- 
dered long,  gazing  at  those  pale-faced  and  terrible 
infants,  how  she  was  to  win  them  over,  which  looked 
as  hard  as  any  of  her  other  painful  pieces  of  business. 
At  last  some  kind  fairy  put  it  into  her  head  to  sing: 
at  which  the  two  turned  round  once  more  upon 
their  bases  solemnly,  and  stared  at  her,  intermitting 
their  play  till  the  song  was  finished.  Then  an  in- 
cident occurred  almost  unparalleled  in  the  nursery 
chronicles  of  Brentburn.  Charley  took  his  thumb 
out  of  his  mouth,  and  looking  up  at  her  with  his 
pale  eyes,  said  of  his  own  accord,  “Adain.’^ 

‘‘Come  here  then,  and  sit  on  my  lap,”  said 
Cicely,  holding  out  her  hand.  There  was  a mo- 
mentary struggle  between  terror  and  gathering  con- 
fidence, and  then  pushing  himself  up  by  the  big 
box  of  bricks  Charley  approached  gradually,  keep- 
ing a wary  eye  upon  her  movements.  Once  on  her 
lap,  however,  the  little  adventurer  felt  himself  com- 
fortable. She  was  soft  and  pleasant,  and  had  a 
bigger  shoulder  to  support  him  and  a longer  arm 
to  enfold  him  than  Annie.  He  leant  back  against 
her,  feeling  the  charm  of  that  softness  and  sweet- 
ness, though  he  did  not  know  how.  “Adain,”  said 
Charley;  and  put  his  thumb  in  his  mouth  with  all 
the  feelings  of  a connoisseur  in  a state  of  perfect 
bodily  ease  prepared  to  enjoy  the  morceau  specially 
given  at  his  desire. 

Thus  Cicely  conquered  the  babies  once  for  all. 
Harry,  too  much  astounded  by  thus  seeing  his  lead 
taken  from  him  to  make  any  remonstrance,  fol- 
lowed his  brother  in  dumb  surprise,  and  stood 


THE  ARTIST  AND  THE  HOUSEKEEPER.  22 9 

against  her,  leaning  on  her  knee.  They  made  the 
prettiest  group;  for,  asMab  said,  even  when  they  are 
ugly,  how  pretty  children  are!  and  they  “compose’^ 
so  beautifully  with  a pretty  young  woman,  making 
even  a commonplace  mother  into  a Madonna  and 
Lady  of  Blessing.  Cicely  sang  them  a song,  so 
very  low  down  in  the  scale  at  once  both  of  music 
and  of  poetry  that  I dare  not  shock  the  refined 
reader  by  naming  it,  especially  after  that  well-worn 
comparison;  and  this  time  both  Harry  and  Charley 
joined  in  the  encore,  the  latter  too  happy  to  think 
of  withdrawing  that  cherished  thumb  from  his 
mouth,  murmuring  thickly,  ‘‘Adain.’^ 

‘‘But,  oh,  what  a waste  of  time — what  a waste 
of  time  it  will  be!’^  cried  poor  Cicely,  when  she 
took  refuge  in  the  garden,  putting  the  delicate  chil- 
dren to  play  upon  a great  rug,  stretched  on  the 
grass.  “To  be  sure  there  will  be  one  mouth  less 
to  feed,  which  is  always  something.  You  must  help 
me  a little  while  I write  my  letters,  Mab.^^ 

“Who  are  you  going  to  write  to?^’  said  Mab, 
with  colloquial  incorrectness  which  would  have 
shocked  out  of  their  senses  the  Miss  Blandys,  and 
all  the  excellent  persons  concerned  in  bringing  her 
up.  “Oh  yes,  I will  try  to  help;  but  won’t  you  for- 
give Annie,  just  for  this  little  time,  and  let  her 
stay?” 

“I  can’t  be  defied  in  my  own  house,”  said 
Cicely  erecting  her  head  with  an  air  which  fright- 
ened Mab  herself;  “and  I must  take  to  it  sooner  or 
later.  Wherever  we  go,  it  is  I that  must  look  after 
them.  Well!  it  will  be  a trouble  at  first;  but  I shall 


^30  the  curate  in  charge. 

like  it  when  I get  fond  of  them.  Mab,  we  ought  to 
be  fond  of  them  now.’^ 

Mab  looked  at  the  children,  and  then  laughed. 
“I  don't  hate  them,"  she  said;  “they  are  such  funny 
little  things,  as  if  they  had  been  born  about  a hun- 
dred years  before  their  time.  I believe,  really,  they 
are  not  children  at  all,  but  old,  old  men,  that  know 
a great  deal  more  than  we  do.  I am  sure  that 
Charley  could  say  something  very  wonderful  if  he 
liked.  He  has  a great  deal  in  him,  if  he  would  but 
take  his  thumb  out  of  his  mouth." 

“Charley  is  my  boy,"  said  Cicely,  brightening 
up;  “he  is  the  one  I like  best." 

“I  like  him  best,  too.  He  is  the  funniest.  Are 
you  going  to  write  there?" 

“I  must  keep  my  eye  upon  them,"  said  Cicely, 
with  great  solemnity.  She  was  pleased  with  her 
victory,  and  felt  it  to  be  of  the  most  prodigious 
importance  that  she  should  not  lose  the  “influence" 
she  had  gained;  for  she  was  silly,  as  became  her 
age,  as  well  as  wise.  She  had  brought  out  her 
little  desk — a very  commonplace  little  article,  in- 
deed, of  rosewood,  with  brass  bindings — and  seated 
herself  under  the  old  mulberry-tree,  with  the  wind 
ruffling  her  papers,  and  catching  in  the  short  curling 
locks  about  her  forehead.  (N.B. — Don't  suppose, 
dear  reader,  that  she  had  cut  them  short;  those 
stray  curls  were  carefully  smoothed  away  under  the 
longer  braids  when  she  brushed  her  hair;  but  the 
breeze  caught  them  in  a way  which  vexed  Cicely 
as  being  untidy).  It  was  as  pretty  a garden  scene 
as  you  could  see;  the  old  mulberry  bending  down 


THE  ARTIST  and  THE  HOUSEKEEPER. 


231 


its  heavy  branches,  the  babies  on  the  rug  at  the 
girhs  feet;  but  yet,  when  you  look  over  Cicely’s 
shoulder,  a shadow  falls  upon  the  pretty  scene. 
She  had  two  letters  to  write,  and  something  still 
less  agreeable  than  her  letters — an  advertisement 
for  the  Guardian,  This  was  very  difficult,  and 
brought  many  a sigh  from  her  young  breast. 

“ ‘An  elderly  clergyman  who  has  filled  the 
office  of  curate  for  a very  long  time  in  one  parish, 
finding  it  now  necessary  to  make  a change,  desires 
to  find  a similar 

“Do  you  think  that  will  do?”  said  Mab.  “It  is 
as  if  poor  papa  were  a butler,  or  something — ‘filled 
the  office  of  curate  for  a long  time  in  one  parish’ — 
it  does  not  sound  nice.” 

“We  must  not  be  bound  by  what  sounds  nice,” 
said  Cicely.  “It  is  not  nice,  in  fact — is  it?  How 
hard  it  is  to  put  even  such  a little  thing  as  this  as 
one  ought!  Will  this  do  better? — ‘A  clergyman, 
who  has  long  occupied  the  position  of  curate  in 
charge,  in  a small  parish,  wishes  to  hear  of  a 

similar ’ What,  Mab?  I cannot  say  situation, 

can  I?  that  is  like  a butler  again.  Oh,  dear,  dear; 
it  is  so  very  much  like  a butler  altogether.  Tell 
me  a word.” 

“Position,”  said  Mab. 

“But  I have  just  said  position.  ‘A  clergyman 
who  has  long  held  the — an  appointment  as  curate  in 
charge’ — there,  that  is  better — ‘wishes  to  hear  of 
a similar  position  in  a small  parish.’  I think  that 
will  do.” 

“Isn’t  there  a Latin  word?  Locum  something 


232 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


or  Other;  would  not  that  be  more  dignified?”  said 
Mab. 

Locum  tenens.  I prefer  English,”  said  Cicely; 
^^and  now  I suppose  we  must  say  something  about 
his  opinions.  Poor  dear  papa!  I am  sure  I do 
not  know  whether  he  is  High,  or  Low,  or  Broad.” 
‘^Not  Broad,”  said  Mab,  pointedly;  for  she  was 
very  orthodox.  ^‘Say  sound;  I have  often  seen 
that,  and  it  does  not  commit  you  to  anything, — 
sound,  but  not  extreme,  like  Miss  Blandy’s  clergy- 
man.” 

^‘Of  sound,  but  not  extreme  principles,”  wrote 
Cicely.  “That  sounds  a little  strange,  for  you 
might  say  that  a man  who  could  not  tell  a lie,  but 
yet  did  not  mind  a fib,  was  sound,  but  not  extreme. 
‘Church  principles’ — is  that  better?  But  I don’t 
like  that  either.  Stop,  I have  it — ‘He  is  a sound, 
but  not  extreme  Churchman’  — that  is  the  very 
thing — ‘and  has  much  experience’  (Ah,  poor  papa!) 
‘in  managing  a parish.  Apply’ — but  that  is  an- 
other question.  Where  ought  they  to  apply?  We 
cannot  give,  I suppose,  the  full  name  and  address 
here?” 

“I  wonder  if  any  one  will  apply?  But,  Cicely, 
suppose  all  comes  right,  as  I am  sure  it  will,  you 
may  be  deceiving  some  one,  making  them  think — 
Here  is  the  very  person  I want;  and  then  how  dis- 
appointed they  will  be!” 

“Oh,  if  there  is  only  their  disappointment  to 
think  of!  Mab,  you  must  not  think  there  is  any 
reliance  to  be  put  on  Mr.  Mildmay.  He  meant  it; 
yes,  tears  came  into  his  eyes,”  cried  Cicely,  with  a 


THE  ARTIST  AND  THE  HOUSEKEEPER.  233 


look  of  gratitude  and  pleasure  in  her  own.  ^‘But 
when  he  goes  back  among  those  Oxford  men,  those 
dons,  do  you  think  they  will  pay  any  attention  to 
him?  They  will  laugh  at  him;  they  will  say  he  is 
a Quixote;  they  will  turn  it  all  into  fun,  or  think  it 
his  folly.” 

^‘Why  should  Oxford  dons  be  so  much  worse 
than  other  men?”  said  Mab,  surprised.  “Papa  is 
an  Oxford  man — he  is  not  hard-hearted.  Dons,  I 
suppose,  are  just  like  other  people?” 

“No,”  said  Cicely,  who  was  arguing  against 
herself,  struggling  against  the  tide  of  fictitious  hope, 
which  sometimes  threatened  to  carry  her  away. 
“They  live  by  themselves  among  their  books;  they 
have  nobody  belonging  to  them;  their  hearts  dry 
up,  and  they  don’t  care  for  common  troubles.  Oh, 
I know  it:  they  are  often  more  heathens  than 
Christians.  I have  no  faith  in  those  sort  of  people. 
He  will  have  a struggle  with  them,  and  then  he 
will  find  it  to  be  of  no  use.  I am  as  sure  as  if  it 
had  happened  already,”  cried  Cicely,  her  bright 
eyes  sparkling  indignant  behind  her  tears. 

“At  least  we  need  not  think  them  so  bad  till 
we  know,”  said  Mab,  more  charitably. 

Cicely  had  excited  herself  this  impassioned 
statement,  in  which  indeed  the  Oxford  men  were 
innocent  sufferers  enough,  seeing  that  she  knew 
nothing  about  them.  “I  must  not  let  myself  be- 
lieve it;  I dare  not  let  myself  believe  it,”  she  said 
in  her  heart;  “but,  oh!  if  by  chance  things  did 
happen  so!^’  What  abundant  compensation,  what 


234  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

lavish  apology,  did  this  impetuous  young  woman 
feel  herself  ready  to  offer  to  those  maligned  dons! 

The  advertisement  was  at  last  fairly  written  out, 
with  the  exception  of  the  address  to  be  given. 
“Papa  may  surely  tell  me  where  they  are  to  apply,” 
Cicely  said,  though  with  doubts  in  her  mind  as  to 
whether  he  was  good  even  for  this;  and  then  she 
wrote  her  letters,  one  of  which  was  in  Mr.  St.  John’s 
name  to  the  lawyer  who  had  written  to  him  about 
the  furniture,  asking  that  the  sale  might  not  take 
place  until  the  curate’s  half-year,  which  ended  in 
the  end  of  September,  should  be  out.  Mr.  St.  John 
would  not  do  this  himself.  “Why  should  I ask 
any  favour  of  those  people  who  do  not  know  me?” 
he  said;  but  he  had  at  length  consented  that  Cicely 
might  write  “if  she  liked;”  and  in  any  case  the 
lawyer’s  letter  had  to  be  answered.  Cicely  made 
this  appeal  as  business-like  as  possible.  “I  wonder 
how  a man  would  write  who  did  not  mind  much 
— to  whom  this  was  only  a little  convenience,”  she 
said  to  her  sister.  “I  don’t  want  to  go  and  ask 
as  if  one  was  asking  a favour  of  a friend — as  if  we 
cared.” 

“But  we  do  care;  and  it  would  be  a favour ” 

“Never  mind.  I wish  we  knew  what  a man 
would  say  that  was  quite  independent  and  did  not 
care.  ‘If  it  is  the  same  to  you,  it  would  be  more 
convenient  for  me  not  to  have  the  furniture  dis- 
turbed till  the  22nd  of  September’ — that  is  the 
kind  of  thing.  We  girls  always  make  too  much  of 
a favour  of  everything,”  said  Cicely,  writing;  and 
she  produced  an  admirable  imitation  of  a business 


THE  ARTIST  AND  THE  HOUSEKEEPER.  235 

letter,  to  which  she  appended  her  own  signature, 
‘‘Cecil  St.  John,^’  which  was  also  her  father's,  with 
great  boldness.  The  curate's  handwriting  was  al- 
most more  womanlike  than  hers,  for  Cicely's  gene- 
ration are  not  taught  to  write  Italian  hands,  and  I 
do  not  think  the  lawyer  suspected  the  sex  of  the 
production.  When  she  had  finished  this,  she  wrote 
upon  another  sheet  of  paper,  “My  dear  Aunt,  I 

am " and  then  she  stopped  sharply.  “It  is 

cool  now,  let  us  take  them  out  for  a walk  on  the 
common,"  she  said,  shutting  up  her  desk.  “I  can 
finish  this  to-night." 

It  was  not,  however,  the  walk  on  the  common 
Cicely  wanted,  but  to  hide  from  her  sister  that  the 
letter  to  Aunt  Jane  was  much  less  easy  than  even 
those  other  dolorous  pieces  of  business.  Poor 
Cicely  looked  upon  the  life  before  her  with  a 
shudder.  To  live  alone  in  some  new  place,  where 
nobody  knew  her,  as  nursemaid  to  these  babies, 
and  attendant  upon  her  father,  without  her  sweet 
companion,  the  little  sister,  who,  though  so  near  in 
age,  had  always  been  the  protected  one,  the  reliant 
dependent  nature,  believing  in  Cicely,  and  giving 
her  infinite  support  by  that  belief!  How  could 
she  do  it?  Yet  she  herself,  who  felt  it  most,  must 
insist  upon  it;  must  be  the  one  to  arrange  and 
settle  it  all,  as  so  often  happens.  It  would  not  be 
half  so  painful  to  Mab  as  to  Cicely;  yet  Mab  would 
be  passive  in  it,  and  Cicely  active;  and  she  could 
not  write  under  Mab's  smiling  eyes  betraying  the 
sacrifice  it  cost  her.  Mab  laughed  at  her  sister's 
impetuosity,  and  concluded  that  it  was  exactly  like 


236  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

Cicely  to  tire  of  her  work  all  in  a moment,  and 
dash  into  something  else.  And,  accordingly,  the 
children’s  out-door  apparel  was  got  from  the  nur- 
sery, and  the  girls  put  on  their  hats,  and  strayed 
out  by  the  garden  door  upon  the  common,  with 
its  heathery  knolls  and  furze  bushes.  Harry  and 
Charley  had  never  in  all  their  small  lives  had  such 
a walk  as  this.  The  girls  mounted  them  upon  their 
shoulders,  and  ran  races  with  them,  Charley  against 
Harry,  till  first  one  twin,  and  then  the  other,  was 
beguiled  into  shrill  little  gusts  of  laughter:  after 
which  they  were  silent — themselves  frightened  by 
the  unusual  sound.  But  when  the  races  ended, 
Charley,  certainly  the  hero  of  the  day,  opened  his 
mouth  and  spoke,  and  said  ‘^Adain!”  and  this  time 
when  they  laughed  the  babies  were  not  frightened. 
Then  they  were  set  down  and  rolled  upon  the 
soft  grass,  and  throned  in  mossy  seats  among  the 
purple  fragrant  heather.  AVhat  an  evening  it  was! 
The  sky  all  ablaze  with  the  sunset,  with  clouds  of 
rosy  flame  hanging  like  canopies  over  the  faint 
delicious  openings  of  that  celestial  green  which 
belongs  to  a summer  evening.  The  curate,  coming 
from  a distant  round  into  the  parish,  which  had 
occupied  him  all  the  day,  found  them  on  the  grass 
under  the  big  beech-tree,  watching  the  glow  of 
colour  in  the  west.  He  had  never  seen  his  girls 
“taking  to”  his  babies  before  so  kindly,  and  the 
old  man  was  glad. 

“But  it  is  quite  late  enough  to  have  them  out; 
they  have  been  used  to  such  early  hours,”  he 
said. 


THE  ARTIST  AND  THE  HOUSEKEEPER. 


237 


‘‘And  Harry  wants  his  tea/’  piped  that  small 
hero,  with  a half  whimper. 

Then  the  girls  jumped  up , and  looked  at  each 
other,  and  Cicely  grew  crimson.  Here  was  a be- 
ginning to  make,  an  advantage  terrible  to  think  of, 
to  be  given  to  the  dethroned  Annie,  who  no  doubt 
was  enjoying  it  keenly.  Cicely  had  already  for- 
gotten the  children’s  tea! 


238 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Reality. 


Cicely  wrote  her  letter  to  her  aunt  that  even- 
ing, dropping  some  tears  over  it  when  Mab  was 
not  by  to  see;  and  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  pos- 
sible she  had  a very  kind  answer,  granting  her  re- 
quest, and  more.  Aunt  Jane  declared  that  she  would 
receive  Mab  with  great  delight,  and  do  everything 
that  could  be  done  to  further  her  art-studies,  which, 
as  the  British  Museum  was  near,  and  ‘^a  very  good 
artist’^  lived  next  door  to  Miss  May  dew,  seemed 
likely  to  be  something  worth  while.  “She  shall  be 
to  me  like  my  own  child;  though  I have  never  con- 
cealed from  either  of  you  that  you.  Cicely,  are  my 
pet,’^  wrote  Miss  Maydew;  and  she  added  a still 
more  liberal  invitation.  “If  you  want  to  spend  a 
few  days  anywhere  between  leaving  Brentburn  and 
going  to  the  new  place,  wherever  that  may  be,  you 
must  come  here — babies  and  all.  I can  manage  to 
find  beds  for  you  near;  and  it  will  be  a nice  little 
holiday  for  us  all,”  said  the  kind  woman.  She  even 
added  a postscript,  to  the  effect  that,  if  there  was  a 
little  money  wanting  at  the  time  of  the  removal. 
Cicely  was  “not  to  hesitate”  to  apply  to  her:  and 
what  could  woman  do  more?  Sympathy  and  hos- 
pitality, and  a little  money,  “if  wanted.”  Alas! 
perhaps  it  is  because  the  money  is  so  sure  to  be 


REALITY. 


239 


wanted  that  so  few  people  venture  on  such  an  offer; 
but  Miss  Maydew  knew  she  was  safe  with  Hester’s 
child,  who  was  so  like  her  mother.  Cicely’s  other 
letter  was  successful,  too.  The  lawyer  who  repre- 
sented the  Chester  family  was  quite  willing  to  post- 
pone the  sale  until  Mr.  St.  John’s  time  was  up.  After 
all,  the  world  is  not  so  very  bad  as  it  is  called. 
Nobody  was  cruel  to  the  St.  Johns.  The  trades- 
people agreed  to  wait  for  their  money.  The  Chesters 
would  not  for  the  world  disturb  the  departing  curate 
until  he  was  ready  to  go;  and  Mrs.  Ascott,  and  all 
the  other  great  people  in  the  parish,  called  and 
made  much  of  the  girls.  The  church  was  more  full 
than  usual  every  Sunday,  for  a vague  expectation 
of  a farewell  (or,  as  old  Mrs.  Joel  called  it,  a funeral) 
sermon  was  in  the  people’s  minds.  A great  many 
of  them,  now  it  came  to  the  point,  were  very  sorry 
that  Mr.  St.  John  was  going.  They  would  have 
signed  freely  anything  that  had  been  set  before  them 
to  make  the  curate  stay.  But,  nevertheless,  they 
were  all  interested  about  his  farewell  sermon,  and 
what  he  would  say  for  himself,  and  what  account 
he  would  give  of  various  matters  which  stuck  fast 
in  their  rustic  recollections.  Thus  the  weeks  stole 
away  quite  placidly,  and  the  harvest  was  got  in,  and 
August  wore  out  under  a great  blazing  moon  with 
the  utmost  cheerfulness.  One  or  two  answers  came 
to  the  advertisement  in  the  Guardian;  but  they 
were  not  of  an  encouraging  kind.  Cicely  felt  that 
it  was  better  to  repeat  it  and  wait;  and  her  father 
was  always  pleased  to  wait  under  all  circumstances; 
and  the  long  bright  days  went  away  one  by  one  in 


240 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


a kind  of  noiseless  procession,  which  Cicely  felt 
herself  watch  with  a dreary  dismay  and  restlessness. 
Nothing  had  happened  yet  to  avert  the  calamity 
that  was  impending.  Everything,  on  the  contrary, 
seemed  preparing  for  it — leading  up  to  it — though 
still  Mr.  St.  John  went  “into  the  parish and  still 
all  went  on  as  usual  at  the  rectory.  The  curate 
showed  no  symptom  of  feeling  these  last  days  dif- 
ferent from  any  other;  but  the  girls  kept  looking 
forward,  and  hoping  for  something,  with  a hope 
which  gradually  fell  sick,  and  grew  speechless — and 
nothing  came. 

One  day  when  Mrs.  Ascott  called,  Cicely  had 
got  into  that  state  of  exhaustion  and  strained 
anxiety  when  the  mind  grows  desperate.  She  had 
been  occupied  with  the  children  all  day,  not  able 
to  get  free  of  them — Annie  having  finally  departed, 
and  Betsy,  being  too  much  displeased  at  the  loss 
of  her  sister  and  subordinate  to  make  any  offer  of 
help.  The  babies  had  grown  more  active  and  more 
loquacious  under  the  changed  regime^  and  this, 
though  it  was  her  own  doing,  increased  poor  Ci- 
cely’s cares.  Mab  was  upstairs  preparing  for  her 
departure,  which  was  to  be  a few  days  before  the 
general  breaking  up.  Altogether  when  Mrs.  Ascott 
came  in,  fresh  and  cool  out  of  her  carriage.  Cicely 
was  not  in  the  best  mood  to  receive  her.  She  gave 
the  children  her  work-basket  to  play  with  to  keep 
them  quiet,  and  cleared  her  own  brow  as  best  she 
could,  as  she  stood  up  and  welcomed  the  great 
lady.  How  fresh  her  toilette  was,  how  un wrinkled 
her  face!  a woman  altogether  at  ease,  and  ready  to 


REALITY. 


241 


smile  upon  everything.  She  shook  hands  with  Cicely, 
and  took  her  seat  with  smiling  prettiness.  ‘‘I  have 
come  really  on  business,”  she  said;  “to  see  if  we 
could  be  of  any  use  to  you.  Cicely — in  packing  or 
any  of  your  preparations;  and  to  ask  if  the  time  is 
quite  fixed?  I suppose  your  papa  must  have  heard 
from  Mr.  Mildmay,  and  that  all  is  settled  now?” 

“All — settled?”  said  Cicely,  faintly.  The  words, 
sa  softly  and  prettily  said,  went  into  the  girhs  heart 
like  a knife;  and  yet  of  course  it  was  no  more  than 
she  expected — no  more. 

“The  appointment,  as  you  would  see,  is  in  the 
paper  to-day.  I am  so  sorry  your  papa  is  going, 
my  dear;  but  as  he  must  go,  and  we  cannot  help 
it,  at  least  we  have  reason  to  be  thankful  that  we 
are  getting  such  a good  man  as  Mr.  Mildmay.  It 
will  be  some  little  compensation  to  the  parish  for 
losing  Mr.  St.  John.” 

“Is  it — in  the  papers?”  said  Cicely,  feeling  sud- 
denly hoarse  and  unable  to  speak. 

•“You  feel  it,  my  poor  dear  child! — of  course 
you  must  feel  it — and  so  do  we  all.  There  will 
not  be  a dry  eye  in  the  whole  church  when  Mr.  St. 
John  preaches  his  farewell  sermon.  To  think  that 
he  should  have  been  here  so  long — though  it  is  a 
little  consolation,  Mr.  Ascott  says,  that  we  are 
getting  a thorough  gentleman,  and  so  well  con- 
nected— an  admirable  man.” 

“Consolation!”  cried  Cicely,  raising  her  head. 
“What  consolation  is  wanted?  Papa  is  pretty  well 
worn  out;  he  has  done  almost  as  much  work  as  a 
man  can  do.  People  cannot  keep  old  things  when 

Tke  Curate  in  Charge » 1 6 


242  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

they  are  worn  out — the  new  are  better;  but  why 
should  any  one  pretend  to  make  a moan  over  it? 
I do  not  see  what  consolation  the  parish  can  want. 
If  you  cry  at  the  farewell  sermon,  Mrs.  Ascott,  I 
shall  laugh.  Why  should  not  your  eyes  be  dry — 
as  dry  as  the  fields — as  dry  as  people’s  hearts?” 

‘‘Cicely,  Cicely!”  cried  Mrs.  Ascott,  shocked; 
“my  dear,  I am  very  sorry  for  it,  but  a misfortune 
like  this  should  be  borne  in  a better  spirit.  I am 
sure  your  poor  dear  papa  would  say  so;  and  it  is 
nobody’s  fault.” 

“It  is  everybody’s  fault,”  cried  Cicely,  forgetting 
herself,  getting  up  in  her  passion,  and  walking 
about  the  room;  “the  parish,  and  the  Church,  and 
all  the  world!  Oh,  you  may  smile!  It  does  not 
touch  you;  you  are  well  off;  you  cannot  be  put  out 
of  your  home;  you  cannot  have  everything  taken 
from  you,  and  see  everybody  smiling  pity  upon 
you,  and  no  one  putting  out  a hand  to  help.  Pity! 
we  don’t  want  pity,”  cried  Cicely;  “we  want  justice. 
How  dare  you  all  stand  by  and  see  it  done?  The 
Church,  the  Church!  that  everybody  preaches  about 
as  if  it  was  God,  and  yet  that  lets  an  old  servant 
be  so  treated — an  old  servant  that  has  worked  so 
hard,  never  sparing  himself!  If  this  is  the  Church’s 
doing,  the  Church  is  harder  than  the  farmers — 
worse,  worse  than  worldly  people.  Do  you  think 
God  will  be  pleased  because  he  is  well  connected? 
or  is  it  God’s  fault?”  Here  her  voice  broke  with 
a sob  and  shudder,  and  suddenly  dropping  from 
her  height  of  passion.  Cicely  said  faintly,  “Papa!” 

^‘What  is  it?”  said  the  curate,  coming  in. 


REALITY. 


243 


Surely  I heard  something  very  strange.  Mrs. 
Ascott,  I beg  your  pardon;  my  ears  must  have  de- 
ceived me.  I thought  Cicely  must  be  repeating,  to 
amuse  herself,  some  speech,  perhaps  out  of  Paradise 
Lost,  I have  heard  of  some  great  man  who  was 
caught  doing  that,  and  frightened  everybody  who 
heard  him,^^  said  Mr.  St.  John,  shaking  hands  with 
the  visitor  with  his  friendly  smile. 

He  sat  down,  weary  and  dusty  from  “the 
parish,”  and  there  was  a painful  pause.  Cicely 
stole  away  to  the  corner  where  her  little  brothers 
were  playing,  her  pulse  bounding,  her  heart  throb- 
bing, her  cheeks  aflame,  her  whole  being,  soul  and 
body,  full  of  the  strong  pain  and  violent  stimulus 
of  the  shock  she  had  received.  She.  had  never  ex- 
pected anything  else,  she  said  to  herself;  she  had 
steadily  prepared  for  the  going  away,  the  ruin  that 
awaited  them;  but,  nevertheless,  her  heart  had 
never  believed  in  it,  since  that  conversation  with 
Mildmay  at  the  rectory  gate.  Day  by  day  she  had 
awoke  with  a certainty  in  her  mind,  never  put  into 
words,  that  the  good  news  would  come,  that  all 
would  be  well.  But  the  shock  did  not  crush  her, 
as  it  does  some  people;  it  woke  her  up  into 
freshened  force  and  life;  her  heart  seemed  to  thrill 
and  throb,  not  so  much  with  pain  as  with  activity, 
and  energy  and  power. 

“Cicely  is  very  much  excited,”  said  Mrs.  Ascott 
in  a low  tone.  “I  fear  she  is  very  excitable;  and 
she  ought  to  be  more  careful  in  her  position — a 
clergyman’s  daughter — what  she  says.  I think  you 
ought,  to  speak  to  her,  Mr.  St.  John.  She  flew  at 


244 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


me  (not  that  I mind  that)  and  said  such  things — 
because  I mentioned  that  Mr.  Mildmay’s  appoint- 
ment was  in  the  paper  this  morning;  and  that  since 
we  must  lose  you — which  nobody  can  be  more 
sorry  for  than  we  are — it  was  well  at  least  that  we 
were  getting  so  good  a man.^^ 

^‘Ah!’'  said  the  curate.  The  announcement 
took  him  by  surprise,  and  gave  him  a shock  too, 
though  of  a different  kind.  He  caught  his  breath 
after  it,  and  panted  for  a moment.  ‘Ts  it  in 
the  papers?  I have  not  seen  it.  I have  no  time 
in  the  morning;  and,  besides,  I never  see  the 
Tiniest 

‘‘We  hope  you  will  settle  to  dine  with  us  one 
day  before  you  go,”  said  Mrs.  Ascott.  “How  we 
shall  miss  you,  Mr.  St.  John!  I don’t  like  to  think 
of  it — and  if  we  can  be  of  any  use  in  your 

preparations I hear  there  is  to  be  a sale, 

too?” 

“Not  till  we  move.  They  will  not  put  us  to 
any  inconvenience;  indeed,”  said  the  curate,  with  a 
sigh  and  a smile,  “everybody  is  very  kind.” 

“I  am  sure  everybody  wishes  to  be  kind,”  said 
Mrs.  Ascott,  with  emphasis.  “I  must  not  take  up 
your  time  any  longer,  for  you  look  very  tired  after 
your  rounds.  But  Mr.  St.  John,  mark  my  words, 
you  must  hold  a tight  hand  over  Cicely.  She  uses 
expressions  which  a clergyman’s  daughter  ought  not 
to  use.” 

“What  were  you  saying  to  her,  my  dear?” 
said  Mr.  St.  John,  coming  in  again  after  he  had 
taken  the  lady  to  her  carriage;  “your  voice  was 


REALITY. 


245 


raised,  and  you  still  look  excited.  What  did  you 
say?” 

^‘It  was  nothing,  papa.  I lost  my  temper — who 
could  help  it?  I will  never  do  it  again.  To  think 
of  that  man  calmly  accepting  the  living  and  turning 
you  out  of  it,  after  all  he  said.” 

^‘What  good  would  it  have  done  had  he  re- 
fused?” said  Mr.  St.  John.  “My  dear,  how  could 
he  help  it?” 

“Help  it?”  cried  Cicely.  “Can  nobody  help 
anything  in  this  world?  Must  we  stand  by  and  see 
all  manner  of  wrong  done  and  take  the  advantage, 
and  then  think  we  are  innocent  and  cannot  help 
it.  That  is  what  I scorn.  Let  him  do  wrong  if  he 
will,  and  bear  the  blame — that  is  honest  at  least. 
But  to  say  he  cannot  help  it;  how  could  he  ever 
dare  to  give  such  a miserable  excuse?” 

“My  dear,”  said  the  curate,  “I  am  too  tired  to 
argue.  I don’t  blame  Mildmay;  he  has  done  just 
what  was  natural,  and  I am  glad  he  is  coming 
here;  while  in  the  meantime  talking  will  do  no 
good,  but  I think  my  tea  would  do  me  good,”  he 
added  with  a smile. 

Always  tea.  Cicely  could  not  help  thinking  as 
she  went  away  dutifully  to  prepare  it — or  dinner, 
or  some  trifle;  never  any  serious  thought  of  what 
was  coming,  of  what  had  already  come.  She  was 
young  and  impatient  and  unjust,  as  it  is  so  natural 
to  be  at  her  years.  The  curate  put  his  hand  over 
his  eyes  when  he  was  left  alone.  He  was  not  dis- 
appointed or  surprised.  He  had  known  exactly 
all  along  how  it  would  be;  but  when  it  thus  came 


246  the  curate  in  charge. 

upon  him  with  such  obvious  and  unmistakable 
reality,  he  felt  it  sharply.  Twenty  years!  All  that 
part  of  his  life  in  which  anything  to  speak  of  had 
happened  to  him,  and — what  was  almost  as  hard 
to  bear — all  the  familiar  things  which  had  framed 
in  his  life — the  scene,  the  place,  the  people,  the 
surroundings  he  was  used  to.  He  had  not  even 
his  favourite  consolation,  forlorn  pride  in  never 
having  asked  anything,  to  sustain  him,  for  that  was 
no  longer  the  case.  He  was  asking  something — a 
poor  curacy,  a priest’s  place  for  a piece  of  bread. 
The  pang  was  momentary,  but  it  was  sharp.  He 
got  up,  and  stretched  his  long  languid  figure,  and 
said  to  himself,  “Ah,  well!  what  is  the  good  of 
thinking?  It  is  soon  enough  to  make  oneself 
wretched  when  the  moment  comes,”  and  then  he 
went  peacefully  into  the  dining-room  to  tea.  This 
was  not  how  the  younger  people  took  it,  but  then 
perhaps  they  had  more  capacity  for  feeling  left. 

Next  morning  Cicely  got  a letter  of  a very  un- 
usual description,  which  affected  her  in  no  small 
degree.  It  was  from  Mildmay,  and,  perhaps,  it  will 
be  best  to  give  it  in  full  here: — 

“Dear  Miss  St.  John, 

“I  have  delayed  writing  to  you  until  I could 
make  sure  that  you  must  have  seen  or  heard  of  the 
announcement  in  the  papers  which  will  tell  the  re- 
sults of  my  last  three  weeks’  work.  Do  not  think 
that  our  last  conversation  has  been  obliterated  from 
my  mind.  Very  far  from  that.  I have  seen  the 
Master  and  all  who  are  concerned,  and  have  done 


REALITY. 


^47 


my  best  to  show  them  the  step  which  bare  justice 
required  at  their  hands,  but  ineffectually.  I made 
a point  at  the  same  time  of  ascertaining  what  were 
the  views  of  the  gentleman  to  whom  Brentburn 
would  be  offered  in  case  I refused  it,  and  found 
him  quite  decided  on  the  subject.  What  could  I 
do  then?  Should  I have  declined  and  put  myself 
entirely  out  of  the  way  of  being  of  any  use  at  all? 

“As  a matter  of  simple  justice,  I refer  the  ques- 
tion to  you.  What  am  I to  do  now?  My  thoughts 
on  the  subject  have  been  many,  I need  not  say, 
since  I saw  you.  May  I ask  your  father  to  con- 
tinue at  Brentburn  as  my  curate?  I am  quite  in- 
experienced; his  assistance  would  be  of  infinite  ad- 
vantage to  me;  and,  in  point  of  fact,  as  is  natural 
at  our  respective  ages,  I should  be  his  curate,  not 
he  mine.  May  I do  this?  or  what  else  can  I do? 
The  position  in  which  I find  myself  is  a painful 
one.  It  would  have  been  much  easier,  I assure 
you,  to  have  shuffled  the  whole  matter  off  upon 
Ruff  head,  and  to  have  withdrawn.  But  I felt  a 
responsibility  upon  me  since  I met  you;  and  I ask 
you  now  urgently,  feeling  that  I have  almost  a right 
to  your  advice,  what  am  I to  do? 

“Yours  very  truly, 

“Roger  Mildmay.” 

This  letter  excited  Cicely  greatly.  By  chance  it 
arrived  before  the  others  had  come  into  the  break- 
fast-room, and  she  was  able  to  read  it  without  any 
looker-on.  She  put  it  hurriedly  into  her  pocket 
before  her  father  and  sister  appeared.  She  did  not 
know  what  answer  to  make,  neither  did  she  feel 


248  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

comfortable  about  making  any  answer,  and  she  said 
nothing  about  it  all  day;  though — oh,  how  the 
letter  burned  her  pocket  and  her  mind!  She  had 
scarcely  ever  known  what  it  was  to  have  a secret 
before,  and  not  to  tell  Mab  seemed  almost  wrong. 
She  felt  that  ther^  was  something  clandestine  about 
her,  going  up  and  down  the  house  with  that  letter 
in  her  possession  which  nobody  knew  of.  And  to 
answer  it — to  answer  it  without  any  one  knowing? 
This  she  could  not  do.  She  bore  the  burden  of 
her  secret  all  the  day,  and  surprised  Mab  very 
much  by  her  silence  about  Mr.  Mildmay,  whom  the 
younger  sister  abused  roundly.  “Perhaps  it  was 
not  his  fault Cicely  faltered.  What  had  come 
over  her?  What  change  had  happened?  Mab  was 
pst  in  amaze. 

The  difficulty,  however,  was  solved  in  a very 
unexpected  way.  Next  morning — no  later — Mr.  St. 
John  himself  had  a letter  from  Oxford;  a letter 
which  made  him  change  colour,  and  bend  his  meek 
brows,  and  then  smile — but  not  like  himself.  “Cicely, 
this  must  be  your  doing he  said.  “I  never  made 
any  complaints  to  Mr.  Mildmay,  nor  said  anything 
to  call  for  his  pity.  He  asks  me  to  be  his  curate,’’ 
the  old  man  added,  after  a pause,  with  a strange 
smile.  No  one  had  suspected  that  Mr.  St.  John 
was  proud,  until  it  became  apparent  all  at  once 
how  proud  he  was. 

“His  curate — O papa!  you  will  stay  here,  and 
never  go  away  at  all,”  cried  Mab  out  of  the  fulness 
of  her  heart.  Cicely  knew  better.  She  grew  pale, 
and  to  stop  that  outcry  of  inconvenient  delight, 
grasped  tightly  her  sister’s  hand. 


REALITY. 


249 


^‘Stay  here!”  said  Mr.  St.  John,  smiling  again. 
‘‘No,  Mab,  I am  not  fallen  so  low  as  that,  I hope. 
There  is  no  need  of  a curate  at  Brentburn.  If  I 
could  do  without  one,  at  double  his  age,  what 
should  he  want  with  a curate?  It  is  pity,  pity!  Oh 
yes,  my  dear,  I know,  very  creditable  to  him;  but 
I did  not  expect — I never  expected  to  be  exposed. 
Cicely,  have  you  that  letter  about  the  curacy  in 
Liverpool?  I should  like  to  look  at  it  again.” 

“But,  papa,  we  agreed  that  it  would  not  do;  a 

bad  town  district  full  of  dreadful  people ” 

“The  more  dreadful  people  are,  the  more  they 
want  to  be  looked  after,”  he  said.  “Write  and  in- 
quire about  it,  my  dear;  I am  not  particular.  Work! 
that  is  all  I want,  not  idleness  and  charity.  You 
all  know  I am  old — but  you  don’t  know  how  much 
strength  I have  in  me,  nor  how  I like  work!”  he 
cried,  with  a quiver  in  his  voice. 

The  shock  had  something  of  the  same  effect 
upon  him  now  that  it  had  previously  had  on  Cicely. 
The  latent  pride  in  him  rose  up  in  arms.  She  had 
to  write  by  that  post  about  the  Liverpool  curacy; 
and  before  the  week  was  out  he  had  accepted  this 
strange,  uncongenial  post.  He  was  to  be  one  of 
three  curates  in  a large  parish,  including  some  of 
the  most  wretched  quarters  in  the  town;  the  work 
very  hard;  the  people  very  degraded. 

“Papa,  you  will  never  be  able  to  bear  it,”  cried 
Cicely,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

“Nonsense,  nonsense,”  he  cried,  with  feverish 
energy;  “write  at  once  and  say  I accept.  It  will 
do  me  all  the  good  in  the  world” 


250 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

The  Breaking  up. 

The  day  after  Mr.  St.  John  made  this  abrupt 
decision — almost  the  only  decision  he  had  made 
for  himself,  without  stimulation  from  others,  all  his 
life — he  went  out  into  the  parish  as  usual,  but  came 
home  very  tired,  and  went  to  bed  early,  which  the 
girls  thought  natural  enough.  During  the  day  Ci- 
cely had  told  Mab  of  her  letter  from  Mild  may,  and 
had  written  an  answer  to  it,  thanking  him  for  his 
consideration,  and  informing  him  of  the  step  her 
father  had  taken.  “We  shall  never  forget  how  kind 
you  have  been,’'  she  wrote,  gratefully;  “both  Mab 
and  I feel  it  to  the  bottom  of  our  hearts.  Is  that 
too  much?”  she  said,  reading  it  over.  “I  don’t 
want  to  say  too  much.” 

“But  we  must  not  say  too  little;  and  if  a man 
who  is  willing  to  sacrifice  the  half  of  his  income  is 
not  to  be  thanked  for  it,  I don’t  know  who  is,”  cried 
Mab,  always  practical. 

“It  is  not  so  much  the  income,”  Cicely  said, 
slightly  wounded  by  this  matter-of-fact  suggestion; 
“it  is  the  feeling.” 

“But  the  offer  proves  the  feeling,”  said  her 
sister;  and  indeed  she  was  right. 

Mr.  St.  John  came  home,  as  has  been  said,  be- 
fore his  usual  hour,  and  went  very  early  to  bed. 


THE  BREAKING  UP. 


251 


Next  morning  he  rang  his  bell — the  most  unusual 
sound — and  sent  word  by  Betsy  that  he  thought  he 
would  not  get  up.  When  Cicely  went  to  him — as 
she  did  at  once  in  a fright,  for  the  bell  and  the 
message  together  produced  a great  panic  in  a house 
quite  unaccustomed  (at  least,  so  far  as  the  girls^  ex- 
perience went)  to  illness — she  found  him  in  a par- 
tial doze,  his  large  pale  hand,  looking  very  nerveless 
and  feeble,  lying  outside  the  coverlet. 

“No,  no!^^  he  said,  when  she  roused  him;  “not 
very  bad;  not  bad  at  all;  only  tired — and  lazy.  I 
have  often  thought  of  late  that  I should  like  to  lie 
still  some  morning;  and  to-day  I have  done  it. 
That’s  all,  that’s  all,  my  dear.”  He  would  not  hear 
of  the  doctor  being  sent  for;  and  wanted  nothing, 
he  declared — nothing  but  a day’s  rest.  Cicely  had 
to  go  downstairs,  feigning  content  with  this;  but 
she  was  far  from  satisfied.  They  talked  it  over  all 
the  morning,  but  there  was  little  enough  to  be 
made  of  it.  There  was  no  harm  in  a day’s  laziness, 
and  nothing  but  good  in  a day’s  rest;  but  yet — the 
girls  did  not  know  what  to  think.  Had  he  been 
looking  ill  lately?  they  asked  each  other.  But  no! 
he  had  not  been  looking  ill — a little  fatigued,  per- 
haps; tired  by  the  hot  weather,  as  he  often  was; 
but  just  as  usual,  doing  as  much  as  he  always  did; 
spending  the  whole  long  day  “in  the  parish;”  ready 
to  go  out  morning  or  night  when  he  was  called  to 
any  one  who  was  sick.  “And  what  so  natural  as 
that  he  should  be  tired?”  Mab  said;  “a  day’s  rest 
will  do  him  good.”  Cicely,  though  she  was  gene- 
rally the  leader,  accepted  this  decision  humbly. 


252  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

saying  nothing  for  her  own  part,  but  feeling  a sense 
of  dismay  steal  into  her  mind,  she  could  not  tell 
why;  for  though  it  was  quite  natural  that  he  should 
do  this,  he  had  never  done  it  before;  and  an  inno- 
vation on  habits  so  long  established  and  firmly 
fixed  was  very  alarming  and  bewildering.  But  Mab 
had  the  coolest  judgment  of  the  two,  she  said  to 
herself — and  no  doubt  Mab  was  right. 

And  next  day  it  appeared  indeed  that  Mab  had 
been  right.  Mr.  St.  John  came  down  to  breakfast 
as  usual,  saying  cheerfully  that  he  was  quite  well, 
and  went  out  “into  the  parish”  as  usual.  The  day’s 
rest  had  done  him  “all  the  good  in  the  world;”  it 
had  “set  him  up;”  nor  did  he  say  anything  more 
again  about  feeling  tired.  How  quickly  the  days 
passed  during  that  last  fortnight!  They  seemed  to 
tumble  on  each  other,  one  following  on  another’s 
heels,  holding  so  little  of  all  the  work  they  ought 
to  see  completed.  It  was  settled  that  the  curate 
was  to  leave  on  the  25th  of  September,  in  order 
that  the  sale  should  be  over  and  everything  cleared 
away  before  the  quarter-day.  Mildmay  wrote  again 
a pleading  note  to  Cicely,  a guarded  but  anxious  one 
to  her  father,  pointing  out  with  abject  civility  that 
it  would  be  the  greatest  possible  advantage  to  him- 
self if  Mr.  St.  John  would  consent  to  stay.  Mr.  St. 
John  only  smiled  and  shook  his  head,  and  handed 
the  letter  over  to  Cicely,  who  was  not  so  confidential 
in  return.  “Write  to  him  for  me,  my  dear,  for  I 
have  not  time.  Say  how  obliged  I am,  but  that  it 
is  impossible.”  “Is  that  all,  papa?”  said  Cicely, 
faltering.  * “All?  What  could  be  said  more?  And 


THE  BREAKING  UP. 


253 


that  everything  will  be  ready  by  quarter-day — every- 
thing ready.’’  As  he  said  this  he  gave  a strange 
bewildered  look  round  him  at  the  solid  mahogany 
furniture  which  stood  steadfast  against  the  walls, 
looking  as  if  it  never  could  be  changed  or  taken 
away.  This  look  was  still  in  his  eyes  when  he  went 
out  to  the  parish,  and  when  he  came  back — a sort 
of  dreamy  wonder  and  confusion.  Cicely  thought 
he  had  the  same  look  next  morning,  and  the  next 
and  next,  as  if  he  had  somehow  got  astray  from  his 
moorings  in  life,  and  could  not  make  out  what  was 
going  to  happen  to  him,  or  why  it  was  going  to 
happen.  Mab  said,  “Nonsense,  you  are  getting  fan- 
ciful. Papa  looks  exactly  as  he  has  always  looked;” 
and  indeed  everything  went  on  just  the  same  as 
usual,  showing  no  other  difference  except  this  look, 
if  there  was  a difference  at  all.  He  went  about 
just  as  usual,  preached  his  two  little  sermons  on 
the  Sunday,  went  to  the  schools,  kept  up  all  the 
occupations  he  had  been  used  to  for  twenty  years; 
but  nevertheless  continued  to  have  that  dazed  look 
in  his  eyes,  sometimes  only  bewildered,  sometimes 
startled,  like  the  look  of  an  animal  who  dumbly 
foresees  something  approaching  which  it  knows  to 
be  malign,  but  can  neither  avert  nor  understand. 
This,  at  least,  was  what  Cicely  saw  in  her  father’s 
eyes;  no  one  else  dreamt  of  looking  at  his  eyes 
particularly,  or  cared  what  they  meant.  Perhaps 
his  usually  tranquil  manners  were  disturbed  a little, 
but  how  natural  that  was!  In  the  evening  when 
they  were  sitting  together  he  would  grow  quite  talk- 
ative, telling  the  girls  little  stories  of  his  first  com- 


254  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

ing  here,  and  of  their  mother’s  trials  in  the  new 
parish,  and  would  even  laugh  softly  over  them, 
saying,  ^Toor  Hester!  You  grow  more  and  more 
like  her.  Cicely,  my  dear!”  and  then  he  would  drop 
into  long  silence,  never  taking  a book  or  the  news- 
paper which  came  in  the  evening,  but  sitting  quite 
still  looking  round  him.  The  girls  did  not  know, 
however,  that  his  parish  rounds  got  shorter;  that  in 
several  of  the  cottages  he  had  been  compelled  to 
wait  and  rest,  and  that  here  and  there  he  had 
seemed  to  forget  everything  around  him,  falling  into 
a half  faint  or  harmless  trance,  from  which  he 
would  rouse  up,  and  smile  upon  them,  and  go  on. 
This,  however,  they  were  not  told  till  long  after, 
when  it  seemed  to  them,  that,  if  they  had  but 
known; — but  if  they  had,  I don’t  know  what  they 
could  have  done. 

On  the  22nd  Mab  went  to  London  to  Aunt 
Jane.  It  was  not  to  be  a parting,  for  it  was  ar- 
ranged that  Mr.  St.  John  and  the  rest  of  the 
family  were  to  go  there  also  on  the  25  th, 
and  rest  for  the  night,  and  afterwards  start 
on  their  journey  to  Liverpool;  but  still  the  girls 
were  sad  enough  as  they  walked  to  the  station 
together,  Mab’s  boxes  having  been  sent  on  before 
by  Farmer  Dent’s  cart.  Their  eyes  were  dim  with 
tears  as  they  went  through  the  faded  heather  on  the 
common.  “You  will  have  plenty  to  fret  about,” 
said  Mab,  “with  all  you  have  got  to  do;  and,  oh, 
Cicely,  I beg  of  you,  don’t  be  silly  and  fret  about 
papa!  He  feels  it,  of  course — but  he  is  quite  well, 
as  well  as  you  or  me.’^  “I  hope  so,  dear,”  said 


THE  BREAKING  UP. 


255 


Cicely,  meekly,  with  a tremor  in  her  voice;  and 
when  they  got  to  the  station  they  looked  through 
all  the  carriages  till  they  saw  in  one  a middle-aged 
homely  woman,  whose  box,  labelled  for  London,^’ 
was  being  put  in,  under  the  seat.  Then  Cicely 
established  Mab  in  the  opposite  corner.  It  was  the 
best  that  could  be  done  for  her,  for  no  one  could 
be  spared  to  go  with  her,  even  could  they  have 
afforded  the  expense.  Cicely  walked  home  alone, 
feeling  as  if  the  world  had  suddenly  grown  dark 
and  lonely  round  her.  Mab  had  set  out  upon  life, 
and  she  for  her  part  was  returning  to  hers — to  the 
tradespeople,  who  were  all  to  be  paid  so  much,  out 
of  the  fifty  pounds  which  the  curate  had  to  receive, 
and  to  the  babies,  who  had  no  one  to  look  after 
them  but  herself,  and  to  her  father  with  that  be- 
wildered look  in  his  eyes.  Next  morning  the  auc- 
tioneer was  coming  to  begin  his  inventory,  and  ar- 
range the  business  of  the  sale,  though  the  actual 
auction  did  not  commence  until  twelve  o’clock  on 
Thursday,  the  day  they  were  to  leave. 

On  Tuesday  morning,  however,  before  he  went 
out  to  the  parish,  Mr.  St.  John  suddenly  stumbled 
upon  the  auctioneer,  who  had  gone  quietly  into  the 
study  as  soon  as  its  temporary  master  left,  and  was 
kneeling  before  the  large  old-fashioned  writing-table, 
which  Mr.  St.  John  had  used  for  so  long,  examin- 
ing it,  and  tapping  it  with  his  knuckles  to  see  where 
the  drawers  were.  He  had  his  back  to  the  door, 
and  did  not  see  the  surprised  spectator,  who  stood 
and  looked  at  him  for  a whole  minute  in  silence. 
The  curate  went  back  to  the  hall  where  Cicely  stood 


256  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

waiting  for  him  with  his  hat  in  her  hand.  ‘^Who  is 
that?  — who  is  that  man?”  he  said,  with  his  eyes 
more  cloudy  and  wild  than  they  had  ever  been,  and 
a sort  of  palsied  trembling  all  over  him. 

harm,  papa,”  said  Cicely,  trying  to  be 
cheerful;  “only  the  auctioneer.” 

“Yes,  yes,  I remember,”  he  said,  taking  his  hat 
from  her.  “It  was  stupid  of  me  not  to  re- 
member.” 

“But,  papa,  you  are  trembling.  You  are  not 
well.  Come  back  and  rest  a little,”  she  cried. 

“No,  no;  it  is  nothing.  Go  back  where?  I 
suppose  he  is  going  through  all  the  rooms?”  said 
Mr.  St.  John.  “No,  no;  it  gave  me  a little  shock, 
foolishly,  but  the  air  will  blow  it  all  away,”  he  said, 
with  a smile,  recovering  himself. 

What  terrors  were  in  Cicely^s  mind  all  that  day! 
but  fortunately  for  her  she  had  not  much  time  to 
indulge  them.  She  had  to  do  all  her  packing,  to 
take  care  of  the  children,  to  separate  the  few  things 
her  father  possessed  from  Mr.  Chester's  furniture, 
to  see  after  everything  and  everybody,  providing 
something  even  (though  she  had  so  little)  for  the 
auctioneer  and  his  men.  And  it  was  a relief  to  her 
when  her  father  came  back  a little  earlier  than 
usual,  and  looking  no  worse.  She  said  to  herself 
that  Mab  was  right;  that  he  felt  it,  of  course — which 
was  to  be  expected — but  otherwise  was  as  well  as 
usual.  He  had  a little  colour  in  his  cheeks,  and 
ate  very  well,  and  afterwards  fell  asleep  in  his  chair. 
How  natural  it  was  that  he  should  fall  asleep!  It 
was  the  very  best  thing  for  him.  Notwithstanding, 


THE  BREAKING  UR. 


257 


In  her  anxiety,  Cicely  went  out  into  the  garden  to 
look  at  him  through  the  open  window,  and  make 
sure  that  all  was  right.  How  white  his  venerable 
head  looked  lying  against  the  dark  corner  of  the 
chair,  his  face  like  ivory  but  for  the  little  pink  in 
his  cheeks,  but  he  looked  well,  although  he  was 
wearied  out,  evidently;  and  no  wonder!  It  was  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 

Next  day  he  was  stronger  and  more  cheerful  in 
the  morning.  He  went  out,  and  made  a round  of 
all  the  poor  people,  saying  good-bye  to  them;  and 
half  the  people  in  Brentburn  came  crying  to  the 
doors  of  the  cottages,  and  said  “Good-bye,  sir!'^ 
and  “God  bless  you,  sir!’^  curtsying  and  wiping 
their  eyes  with  their  aprons.  All  the  last  sixpences 
he  had  went  that  day  to  the  old  women  and  the 
children,  to  buy  a little  tea  or  some  sweets  in  the 
little  shop.  He  was  very  heavy  about  the  eyes 
when  he  came  home,  and  took  his  tea  eagerly. 
Then  he  went  out  for  an  evening  stroll,  as  he  had 
been  used  to  do  before  all  these  troubles  came.  He 
did  not  ask  Cicely  to  go  with  him,  but  no  doubt  he 
knew  how  busy  she  was.  When,  however,  she  had 
put  the  children  to  bed,  and  packed  everything  but 
the  last  box,  which  was  left  till  to-morrow  morning. 
Cicely  perceived  that  daylight  was  over,  and  that  it 
was  getting  late.  Her  father  was  not  in  any  of  the 
rooms.  Frightened,  she  ran  out,  and  gazed  about 
her  looking  for  him;  then,  seeing  no  one  up  or 
down,  in  a sudden  passion  of  terror,  hurried  up  the 
bank  to  the  white  churchyard  stile.  There  she 
found  him  at  once,  standing  close  by  the  cross  on 

The  Curate  in  Charge,  1 7 


258  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

her  mother’s  grave.  He  had  one  arm  round  it,  arid 
with  his  other  hand  was  picking  away  the  yellow 
mosses  that  had  crept  over  the  stone;  but  he  stopped 
when  she  called  him,  and  picked  up  his  hat  which 
lay  at  his  feet,  and  came  with  her  quite  submis- 
sively. 

“It  is  late,  papa,”  said  Cicely,  with  quivering 
lips. 

“Yes,  yes,  my  dear;  yes,  you  are  quite  right,” 
he  said,  and  walked  towards  the  rectory — but  like 
a blind  man,  as  if  he  did  not  see  where  he  was 
going.  Two  or  three  times  she  had  to  guide  him 
to  keep  him  from  stumbling  over  the  humble 
graves,  for  which  usually  he  had  so  much  reverence. 
He  went  into  the  house  in  the  same  way,  going 
straight  before  him,  as  if  he  did  not  know  where 
the  doors  were;  and,  instead  of  going  into  the 
dining-room,  where  supper  was  laid  as  usual,  he 
took  up  a candle  which  stood  on  the  hall-table, 
and  went  to  his  study.  Cicely  followed  him 
alarmed;  but  he  did  nothing  more  than  seat  him- 
self at  his  writing-table. 

“Are  you  not  coming  to  supper,  papa?”  she 
said. 

“Did  any  one  speak?”  he  asked,  looking  up 
eagerly  as  if  he  did  not  see. 

“O  papa,  dear,  come  to  supper!”  she  cried. 
Then  his  vacant  face  seemed  to  brighten. 

“Yes,  my  love,  yes.  I am  coming;  I am  com- 
ing  ” 

Cicely  did  not  know  what  to  say  or  to  think. 
Was  it  to  her  he  was  speaking?  She  went  away. 


THE  BREAKING  UP. 


259 


her  heart  beating  loud,  to  see  that  all  was  ready, 
hoping  he  would  follow.  But  as  he  did  not  come 
in  about  ten  minutes  after,  she  went  back.  The 
room  was  dark,  one  corner  of  it  only  lighted  by 
the  candle,  which  threw  all  its  light  on  his  pale 
face  and  white  hair.  He  was  turning  over  some 
papers,  apparently  absorbed.  He  did  not  seem  to 
observe  her  entrance.  She  went  up  to  him  softly, 
and  put  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  ^^Come, 
please,  papa,  I am  waiting,”  she  said. 

He  turned  to  her,  a great  light  shining  over  his 
face.  ‘^Ah!  yes,  my  darling,  you  are  waiting.  How 
long  you  have  been  waiting!  But  Tm  ready — 
ready. — I knew  you  would  come,  Hester,  I knew 

you  would  come  when  I wanted  you  most ” 

^Tapa!”  cried  Cicely  in  a voice  shrill  with 
terror. 

He  started,  the  light  went  out  of  his  face,  his 
eyes  grew  cloudy  and  bewildered.  ‘^What  were 
you  saying.  Cicely?  I am  getting — a little  hard  of 
hearing.  I don’t  think  I heard  what  you  said.” 
‘^Come  in  to  supper,  papa.” 

‘‘Yes,  yes;  but  you  need  not  trouble;  there  is 
nothing  the  matter,”  he  said,  recovering  himself. 
And  he  went  with  her  and  ate  something  dutifully, 
not  without  appetite.  Then  he  returned  to  his 
study.  When  Cicely  went  to  him  there  to  say 
good-night  he  was  smiling  to  himself.  “I  am 
coming;  I am  coming,”  he  said.  “No  need  to  tell 
me  twice;  I know  when  I am  in  good  hands.” 

“Good  night,  papa — you  are  going  to  bed? — 
we  must  be  early  to-morrow,”  said  Cicely. 

ir 


26o 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


^^Yes,  early — early he  said,  still  smiling. 
^‘Directly,  Hester — before  you  have  reached  the 
gate 

“Papa!  don’t  you  know  me?”  cried  Cicely, 
trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

Again  he  turned  to  her  with  his  old  face  all 
lighted  up  and  shining.  “Know  you!  my  darling!” 
he  said. 


THE  CURATE  LEAVES  BRENTBURN. 


261 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

The  Curate  leaves  Brentburn. 

Cicely  went  to  her  room  that  night  in  a very 
nervous  and  disturbed  condition.  It  was  her  last 
night,  too,  in  the  house  in  which  she  had  been 
born;  but  she  had  no  leisure  to  think  of  that,  or  to 
indulge  in  any  natural  sentiments  on  the  subject. 
She  was  very  much  alarmed  about  her  father, 
whose  looks  were  so  strange,  but  did  not  know 
what  to  do.  That  he  should  take  her  for  her 
mother  was  perhaps  not  wonderful  at  such  a 
moment  of  agitation;  but  it  frightened  her  more 
than  words  can  say.  What  could  she  do?  It  was 
night,  and  there  was  no  one  in  the  house  with  her 
but  Betsy,  who  had  for  hours  been  buried  in 
deepest  slumbers;  and  even  had  she  been  able  to 
send  for  the  doctor,  what  advance  would  that  have 
made? — for  he  was  not  ill,  only  strange,  and  it  was 
so  natural  that  he  should  be  strange; — and  the 
good  steady-going  country  doctor,  acquainted  with 
honest  practical  fevers  and  rheumatism,  what  help 
could  he  bring  to  a mind  diseased?  Cicely  had 
changed  her  room  in  her  new  office  of  nurse,  and 
now  occupied  a small  inner  chamber  communicat- 
ing with  that  of  the  two  children.  She  was  sitting 
there  pondering  and  thinking  when  she  heard  her 


26 2 THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

father  come  upstairs.  Then  he  appeared  suddenly 
bending  over  the  children's  little  cots.  He  had  a 
candle  in  his  hand,  and  stooping  feebly,  kissed  the 
little  boys.  He  was  talking  to  himself  all  the  time; 
but  she  could  not  make  out  what  he  said,  except, 
as  he  stood  looking  at  the  children,  ^‘Poor  things, 
poor  things!  God  bless  you.”  Cicely  did  not 
show  herself,  anxiously  as  she  watched,  and  he 
went  out  again  and  on  to  his  own  room.  He  was 
going  to  bed  quietly,  and  after  all  it  might  turn 
out  to  be  nothing;  perhaps  he  had  been  dozing 
when  he  called  her  Hester,  and  was  scarcely  awake. 
After  this  she  intended  to  go  to  bed  herself;  for 
she  was  sadly  worn  out  with  her  long  day^s  work 
and  many  cares,  and  fell  dead  asleep,  as  youth  un- 
accustomed to  watching  ever  will  do  in  the  face  of 
all  trouble.  The  house  was  perfectly  still  so  long 
as  she  was  awake;  not  a sound  disturbed  the  quiet 
except  the  breathing  of  Harry  and  Charley,  and  the 
tap  of  the  jessamine  branches  against  her  windows. 
There  was  one  last  blossom  at  the  end  of  a branch, 
late  and  long  after  its  neighbours,  which  shed  some 
of  its  peculiar  sweetness  through  the  open  window. 
The  relief  was  so  great  to  hear  her  father  come 
upstairs,  and  to  know  that  he  was  safe  in  his  room, 
that  her  previous  fright  seemed  folly.  She  said  her 
prayers,  poor  child!  in  her  loneliness,  giving  tear- 
ful thanks  for  this  blessing,  and  fell  asleep  without 
time  to  think  of  any  bothers  or  sorrow  of  her  own. 
Thus  sometimes,  perhaps,  those  who  have  other 
people  to  carry  on  their  shoulders  avoid  oc- 
casionally the  sharp  sting  of  personal  feeling— at 


THE  CURATE  LEAVES  BRENTBURN.  263 

least,  of  all  the  sentiments  which  are  of  a secondary- 
kind. 

The  morning  was  less  warm  and  bright  than 
usual,  with  a true  autumnal  haze  over  the  trees. 
This  soothed  Cicely  when  she  looked  out.  She 
was  very  early,  for  there  were  still  various  last 
things  to  do.  She  had  finished  her  own  individual 
concerns,  and  locked  her  box  ready  for  removal, 
before  it  was  time  to  call  the  children,  who  slept 
later  and  more  quietly  than  usual  by  another  happy 
dispensation  of  providence.  Cicely  heard  the 
auctioneer  arrive,  and  the  sound  of  chatter  and 
laughter  with  which  Betsy  received  the  men,  with 
whom  already  she  had  made  acquaintance.  Why 
not?  Shall  everybody  be  sad  because  we  are  in 
trouble?  Cicely  asked  herself;  and  she  leant  out 
of  the  window  which  overlooked  the  garden,  and 
took  a deep  draught  of  the  dewy  freshness  of  the 
morning  before  she  proceeded  to  wake  the  children 
and  begin  the  day’s  work.  Her  eyes,  poor  child! 
were  as  dewy  as  the  morning;  but  she  did  not  give 
herself  time  to  cry,  or  waste  her  strength  by  such 
an  indulgence.  A knock  at  her  door  disturbed 
her,  and  she  shut  the  window  hastily,  and  shaking 
off  those  stray  drops  from  her  eyelashes,  went  to 
see  what  Betsy  wanted  so  early.  Betsy  stood  out- 
side, looking  pale  and  excited.  “The  men  says, 
please,  miss,  will  you  come  downstairs?”  said  Betsy, 
making  an  effort  at  a curtsy,  which  was  so  very 
unusual  that  Cicely  was  half  amused. 

“What  do  they  want?  I have  to  dress  the 
children,  Betsy.  Could  not  you  do  instead?” 


264 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


‘‘If  you  please,  miss,  Til  dress  the  children. 
Do  go — go,  please  Miss  Cicely!  Tm  too  frightened. 
O miss,  your  poor  papa!” 

“Papa?”  Cicely  gave  the  girl  one  frightened 
beseeching  look,  and  then  flew  downstairs,  her  feet 
scarcely  touching  the  steps.  Why  was  he  up  so 
early?  Why  was  he  vexing  himself  with  those  men, 
and  their  preparations,  making  himself  miserable 
about  nothing,  when  there  were  so  many  real 
troubles  to  bear?  The  men  were  standing  in  a 
little  knot  by  the  study  door,  which  was  half  open. 
“What  do  you  want  with  me?  What  is  it?” 

They  were  confused;  one  of  them  put  forward 
another  to  speak  to  her,  and  there  was  a little 
rustling,  and  shuffling,  and  changing  of  position, 
which  permitted  her  to  see,  as  she  thought,  Mr. 
St.  John  sitting,  facing  the  door,  in  his  usual  chair. 
“Ah!  it  is  papa  who  has  come  down,  I see — thank 
you  for  not  wishing  to  disturb  him.  I will  tell 
him,”  said  Cicely,  passing  through  the  midst  of 
them  with  swift  light  youthful  steps. 

“Don't  let  her  go!  Stop  her,  for  God's  sake!” 
cried  one  of  the  men,  in  subdued  confused  tones. 
She  heard  them,  for  she  remembered  them  after- 
wards; but  at  that  moment  the  words  conveyed  no 
meaning  to  her.  She  went  in  as  any  child  would 
go  up  to  any  father.  The  chair  was  pushed  away 
from  the  writing-table,  facing  towards  the  door, 
as  if  he  had  been  expecting  some  one.  What  sur- 
prised Cicely  more  than  the  aspect  of  his  coun- 
tenance, in  which  at  the  first  glance  she  saw  no 
particular  difference,  was  that  he  had  upon  hi^ 


THE  CURATE  LEAVES  BRENTBURN.  265 

knees,  folded  neatly,  a woman’s  cloak  and  hat — 
her  mother’s  cloak  and  hat — which  had  remained 
in  his  room  by  his  particular  desire  ever  since 
Hester  died. 

‘Tapa,  what  are  you  doing  with  these?”  she 
said. 

There  was  no  reply.  ‘Tapa,  are  you  asleep?” 
cried  Cicely.  She  was  getting  very  much  frightened, 
her  heart  beating  against  her  breast.  For  the  moment 
some  impulse  of  terror  drove  her  back  upon  the 
men  at  the  door.  ^‘He  has  gone  to  sleep,”  she 
said,  hurriedly;  ''he  was  tired,  very  much  tired  last 
night.” 

"We  have  sent  for  the  doctor,  miss,”  said  one 
of  the  men. 

"Papa,  papa!”  said  Cicely.  She  had  gone  back 
to  him  paying  no  attention  to  them;  and  then  she 
gave  a low  cry,  and  threw  herself  on  her  knees  by 
his  side,  gazing  up  into  his  face,  trembling.  "What 
is  the  matter?”  said  the  girl,  speaking  low;  "what 
is  it,  papa?  Where  were  you  going  with  that  hat 
and  cloak?  Speak  to  me;  don’t  sit  there  and  doze. 
We  are  to  go  away — to  go  away — -don’t  you  re- 
member, to-day?” 

Some  one  else  came  in  just  then,  though  she 
did  not  hear.  It  was  the  doctor,  who  came  and 
took  her  by  the  arm  to  raise  her.  "Run  away,  my 
dear;  run  upstairs  till  I see  what  is  to  be  done,”  he 
said.  "Somebody  take  her  away.” 

Cicely  rose  up  quickly.  "I  cannot  awake  him,” 
she  said.  "Doctor,  I am  so  glad  you  have  come, 


266 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


though  he  would  not  let  me  send  yesterday.  I think 
he  must  be  in  a faint.” 

“Go  away,  go  away,  my  dear.” 

It  neither  occurred  to  the  poor  girl  to  obey  him 
nor  to  think  what  he  meant.  She  stood  by  breath- 
less while  he  looked  at  the  motionless  figure  in  the 
chair,  and  took  into  his  own  the  grey  cold  hand 
which  hung  helpless  by  Mr.  St.  John^s  side.  Cicely 
did  not  look  at  her  father,  but  at  the  doctor,  to 
know  what  it  was;  and  round  the  door  the  group 
of  men  gazed  too,  awestricken,  with  Betsy,  whom 
curiosity  and  the  attraction  of  terror  had  brought 
downstairs,  and  one  or  two  labourers  from  the  vil- 
lage passing  to  their  morning’s  work,  who  had  come 
in,  drawn  by  the  strange  fascination  of  what  had 
happened,  and  staring  too. 

“Hours  ago,”  said  the  doctor  to  himself,  shaking 
his  head;  “he  is  quite  cold;  who  saw  him  last?” 

“O  doctor,  do  something!”  cried  Cicely,  clasping 
her  hands;  “don’t  lose  time;  don’t  let  him  be  like 
this;  do  something — oh,  do  something,  doctor! 
Don’t  you  know  that  we  are  going  to-day?” 

He  turned  round  upon  her  very  gently,  and  the 
group  at  the  door  moved  with  a rustling  movement 
of  sympathy.  Betsy  fell  a crying  loudly,  and  some 
of  the  men  put  their  hands  to  their  eyes.  The 
doctor  took  Cicely  by  the  arm,  and  turned  her  away 
with  gentle  force. 

“My  dear,  you  must  come  with  me.  I want  to 
Speak  to  you  in  the  next  room.” 

“But  papa?”  she  cried. 


THE  CURATE  LEAVES  BRENTBURN.  267 

‘‘My  poor  child,”  said  the  compassionate  doctor, 
“we  can  do  nothing  for  him  now.” 

Cicely  stood  quite  still  for  a moment,  then  the 
hot  blood  flushed  into  her  face,  followed  by  sudden 
paleness.  She  drew  herself  out  of  the  kind  doctor's 
hold,  and  went  back  and  knelt  down  again  by  her 
father's  side.  Do  nothing  more  for  him — while 
still  he  sat  there,  just  as  he  always  did,  in  his  own 
chair? 

“Papa,  what  is  it?”  she  said,  trembling,  while 
they  all  stood  round.  Suddenly  the  roughest  of  all 
the  men,  one  of  the  labourers,  broke  forth  into  loud 
sobs. 

“Don't  you,  miss — don't,  for  the  love  of  God!” 
cried  the  man. 

She  could  not  hear  it.  All  this  came  fresh  to 
her  word  for  word  a little  later,  but  just  then  she 
heard  nothing.  She  took  the  hand  the  doctor  had 
taken,  and  put  her  warm  cheek  and  her  young  lips 
to  it. 

“He  is  cold  because  he  has  been  sleeping  in 
his  chair,”  she  cried,  appealing  to  them.  “Nothing 
else — what  could  it  be  else?  and  we  are  going  away 
to-day!” 

The  doctor  grasped  at  her  arm,  almost  hurting 
her.  “Come,”  he  said,  “Cicely,  this  is  not  like 
you.  We  must  carry  him  to  bed.  Come  with  me 
to  another  room.  I want  to  ask  you  how  he  was 
last  night.” 

This  argument  subdued  her,  and  she  went 
meekly  out  of  the  room,  trying  to  think  that  her 
father  was  to  be  carried  to  his  bed,  and  that  all 


268 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


might  still  be  well.  Trying  to  think  so;  though  a 
chill  had  fallen  upon  her,  and  she  knew,  in  spite  of 
herself. 

The  men  shut  the  door  reverently  as  the  doctor 
took  her  away,  leaving  him  there  whom  no  one 
dared  to  touch,  while  they  stood  outside  talking  in 
whispers.  Mr.  St.  John,  still  and  cold,  kept  posses- 
sion of  the  place.  He  had  gone  last  night,  when 
Cicely  saw  him,  to  fetch  those  relics  of  his  Hester, 
which  he  had  kept  for  so  many  years  in  his  room;, 
but,  in  his  feeble  state,  had  been  so  long  searching 
before  he  could  find  them,  that  sleep  had  overtaken 
Cicely,  and  she  had  not  heard  him  stumbling  down- 
stairs again  with  his  candle.  Heaven  knows  what 
fancy  it  was  that  had  sent  him  to  seek  his  wife’s 
cloak  and  hat;  his  mind  had  got  confused  altogether 
with  trouble  and  weakness,  and  the  shock  of  up- 
rootal;  and  then  he  had  sat  down  again  with  a 
smile,  with  her  familiar  garments  ready  for  her,  to 
wait  through  the  night  till  Hester  came.  What 
hour  or  moment  it  was  no  one  could  tell;  but 
Hester,  or  some  other  angel,  had  come  for  him  ac- 
cording to  his  expectation,  and  left  nothing  but  the 
case  and  husk  of  him  sitting,  as  he  had  sat  waiting 
for  her,  with  her  cloak  upon  his  knees. 

^T  am  going  to  telegraph  for  her  sister,”  said 
the  doctor,  coming  out  with  red  eyes  after  all  was 
done  that  could  be  done,  both  for  the  living  and 
the  dead.  “Of  course  you  will  send  and  stop  the 
people  from  coming;  there  can  be  no  sale  to- 
day,” 


THE  CURATE  LEAVES  BRENTEURN.  269 

course,”  said  the  auctioneer.  “The  young 
lady  wouldn't  believe  it,  my  man  tells  me.  I must 
get  them  off  at  once,  or  they'll  get  drinking.  They're 
all  upset  like  a parcel  of  women — what  with  finding 
him,  and  what  with  seeing  the  young  lady.  Poor 
thing!  and,  so  far  as  I can  learn,  very  badly  left?” 
“Left!”  cried  the  doctor;  there  was  derision  in 
the  very  word.  “They  are  not  left  at  all;  they  have 
not  a penny  in  the  world.  Poor  St.  John,  we  must 
not  say  a word  now  against  him,  and  there  is  not  much 
to  say.  He  got  on  with  everybody.  He  did  his  duty  by 
rich  and  poor.  There  was  never  a better  clergyman, 
always  ready  when  you  called  him,  early  or  late; 
more  ready  for  nothing,”  the  doctor  added  remorse- 
fully, “than  I am  for  my  best  paying  patients.  We 
might  have  done  more  to  smooth  his  way  for  him, 
perhaps,  but  he  never  could  take  care  of  money  or 
do  anything  to  help  himself;  and  now  they'll  have 
to  pay  for  it,  these  two  poor  girls.” 

Thus  the  curate's  record  was  made.  The  news 
went  through  the  parish  like  the  wind,  in  all  its 
details;  dozens  of  people  were  stopped  in  the  village 
going  to  the  sale,  and  a little  comforted  for  their 
disappointment  by  the  exciting  story.  Some  of  the 
people  thought  it  was  poor  Miss  Brown,  the  other 
Mrs.  St.  John,  whom  he  was  looking  for.  Some 
felt  it  a strange  heathenish  sort  of  thing  of  him,  a 
clergyman,  that  he  should  be  thinking  at  that  last 
moment  of  anything  but  the  golden  city  with  the 
gates  of  pearl;  and  thought  there  was  a dreadful 
materialism  in  the  cloak  and  hat.  But  most  people 
felt  a thrill  of  real  emotion,  and  the  moment  he 


270 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


was  dead,  mourned  Mr.  St.  John  truly,  declaring 
that  Brentburn  would  never  see  the  like  of  him 
again.  Mrs.  Ascott  cried  so  that  she  got  a very 
bad  headache,  and  was  obliged  to  go  and  lie  down. 
But  she  sent  her  maid  to  ask  if  they  could  do 
anything,  and  even  postponed  a dinner-party  which 
was  to  have  been  that  evening,  which  was  a very 
gratifying  token  of  respect.  Mrs.  Joel,  who  was 
perhaps  at  the  other  extremity  of  the  social  scale, 
cried  too,  but  had  no  headache,  and  went  off  at 
once  to  the  rectory  to  make  herself  useful,  pulling 
all  the  blinds  down,  which  Betsy  had  neglected, 
and  telling  all  the  callers  that  poor  Miss  Cicely  was 
as  well  as  could  be  expected,  though  ‘4t  have  given 
her  a dreadful  shock.”  The  trunks  stood  all  ready 
packed  and  corded,  with  Mr.  St.  John’s  name  upon 
them.  But  he  had  no  need  of  them,  though  he 
had  kept  his  word  and  left  Brentburn  on  the  ap- 
pointed day.  After  a while  people  began  to  think 
that  perhaps  it  was  the  best  thing  that  could  have 
happened — best  for  him  certainly — he  could  never 
have  borne  the  rooting  up,  they  said — he  could 
never  have  borne  Liverpool,  so  noisy  and  quarrel- 
some. “Why,  it  would  have  killed  him  in  a fort- 
night, such  a place,”  said  Mr.  Ascott,  who  had  not, 
however,  lent  a hand  in  any  way  to  help  him  in 
his  struggle  against  fate. 

Mab,  it  is  needless  to  say,  came  down  at  once 
with  Aunt  Jane,  utterly  crushed  and  helpless  with 
sorrow.  Poor  Cicely,  who  was  only  beginning  to 
realize  what  it  was,  and  to  make  sure  that  her 
father  absolutely  was  dead,  and  beyond  the  reach 


THE  CURATE  LEAVES  BRENTBURN. 


271 


of  all  bringing  back,  had  to  rouse  herself,  and  take 
her  sister  into  her  arms  and  console  her.  Mab 
sobbed  quietly  when  she  was  in  her  sister’s  arms, 
feeling  a sense  of  strong  protection  in  them. 

“I  have  still  you.  Cicely,”  she  said,  clinging 
to  her. 

^‘But  Cicely  has  no  one,”  said  Aunt  Jane,  kiss- 
ing the  pale  girl  with  that  compassionate  insight 
which  age  sometimes  brings  even  to  those  who  do 
not  possess  it  by  nature.  ‘‘But  it  is  best  for  you 
to  have  them  all  to  look  after,  if  you  could  but  see 
it,  my  poor  child!” 

“I  do  see  it,”  said  Cicely — and  then  she  had 
to  disentangle  herself  from  Mab’s  clinging,  and  to 
go  out  of  the  room  where  they  had  shut  themselves 
up,  to  see  somebody  about  the  “arrangements,” 
though  indeed  everybody  was  very  kind  and  spared 
her  as  much  as  they  could. 

After  the  first  shock  was  over  it  may  well  be 
supposed  what  consultations  there  were  within  the 
darkened  rooms.  The  funeral  did  not  take  place 
till  the  following  Tuesday,  as  English  custom 
demands,  and  the  days  were  very  slow  and  terrible 
to  the  two  girls,  hedged  round  by  all  the  prejudices 
of  decorum,  who  could  do  nothing  but  dwell  with 
their  grief  in  the  gloomy  house  which  crushed  their 
young  spirits  with  its  veiled  windows  and  change- 
less dimness.  That,  and  far  more,  they  were  ready 
to  do  for  their  father  and  the  love  they  bore  him; 
but  to  feel  life  arrested  and  stopped  short  by  that 
shadow  of  death  is  hard  upon  the  young.  Miss 
Maydew,  whose  grief  naturally  was  of  a much 


272  the  curate  in  charge. 

lighter  description  than  that  of  the  girls,  and  with 
whom  decorum  was  stronger  than  grief,  kept  them 
upstairs  in  their  rooms,  and  treated  them  as  invalids, 
which  was  the  right  thing  to  do  in  the  circum- 
stances. Only  at  dusk  would  she  let  them  go  even 
into  the  garden,  to  get  the  breath  of  air  which 
nature  demanded.  She  knew  all  the  proper  cere- 
monials which  ought  to  be  observed  when  there 
was  ‘‘a  death  in  the  house,’’  and  was  not  quite  sure 
even  now  how  far  it  was  right  to  let  them  discuss 
what  they  were  going  to  do.  To  make  up  for  this, 
she  carried  to  them  the  scraps  of  parish  gossip 
which  she  gleaned  from  Mrs.  Joel  and  from  Betsy 
in  the  kitchen.  There  had,  it  appeared,  been  a 
double  tragedy  in  the  parish.  A few  days  after  the 
death  of  the  curate,  the  village  schoolmistress,  a 
young  widow  with  several  babies,  had  ‘‘dropped 
down”  and  died  of  heart  disease  in  the  midst  of 
the  frightened  children.  “It  is  a terrible  warning 
to  the  parish,”  said  Miss  Maydew,  “two  such  events 
in  one  week.  But  your  dear  papa,  everybody 
knows,  was  ready  to  go,  and  I hope  Mrs.  Jones  was 
so  too.  They  tell  me  she  was  a good  woman.” 

“And  what  is  to  become  of  the  children?”  said 
Cicely,  thinking  of  her  own  burden. 

“Oh,  my  dear,  the  children  will  be  provided 
for;  they  always  are  somehow.  There  are  so  many 
institutions  for  orphans,  and  people  are  very  good 
if  you  know  how  to  get  at  them.  No  doubt  some- 
body will  take  them  up.  I don’t  doubt  Mr.  Ascott 
has  votes  for  the  British  Orphans’  or  St  Ann’s 


THE  CURATE  LEAVES  BRENTBURN. 


273 


Society,  or  some  of  these.  Speaking  of  that,  my 
dears,  I have  been  thinking  that  we  ought  to  try 
for  something  of  the  same  kind  ourselves.  Cicely, 
hear  first  what  I have  got  to  say  before  you  speak. 
It  is  no  disgrace.  How  are  Mab  and  you  to  main- 
tain these  two  little  boys?  Of  course  you  shall 
have  all  that  I can  give  you,  but  I have  so  little; 
and  if  girls  can  maintain  themselves,  it  is  all  they 
are  likely  to  do.  There  is  a society,  I am  sure,  for 
the  orphans  of  clergymen ” 

‘‘Aunt  Jane!  Papa^s  sons  shall  never  be  charity 
boys — never!  if  I should  work  my  fingers  to  the 
bone,  as  people  say.’^ 

“Your  fingers  to  the  bone — what  good  would 
that  do?  Listen  to  me,  girls.  Both  of  you  can 
make  a fair  enough  living  for  yourselves.  You  will 
easily  get  a good  governess’s  place.  Cicely;  for, 
though  you  are  not  very  accomplished,  you  are  so 
thorough — and  Mab,  perhaps,  if  she  succeeds,  may 
do  still  better.  But  consider  what  that  is:  fifty 
pounds  a year  at  the  outside;  and  at  first  you  could 
not  look  for  that;  and  you  are  always  expected  to 
dress  well  and  look  nice,  and  Mab  would  have  all 
sorts  of  expenses  for  her  materials  and  models  and 
so  forth.  The  cheapest  good  school  for  boys  I 
ever  heard  of  was  forty  pounds  without  clothes,  and 
at  present  they  are  too  young  for  school.  It  is  a 
woman’s  work  to  look  after  two  little  things  like 
that.  What  can  you  do  with  them?  If  you  stay 
and  take  care  of  them,  you  will  all  three  starve.  It 
would  be  far  better  to  get  them  into  some  asylum 

The  Curate  in  Charge^  1 8 


274 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


where  they  would  be  well  looked  after;  and  then/^ 
said  Aunt  Jane,  insinuatingly,  ‘‘if  you  got  on  very 
well,  or  if  anything  fortunate  happened,  you  could 
take  them  back,  don’t  you  see,  whenever  you 
liked.” 

Mab,  moved  by  this,  turned  her  eyes  to  Cicely 
for  her  cue;  for  there  was  a great  deal  of  reason  in 
what  Aunt  Jane  said. 

“Don’t  say  anything  more  about  it,  please,”  said 
Cicely.  “We  must  not  say  too  much,  for  I may 
break  down,  or  any  one  may  break  down;  but  they 
shall  not  go  upon  charity  if  I can  help  it.  Oh, 
charity  is  very  good,  I know;  we  may  be  glad  of 
it,  all  of  us,  if  we  get  sick  or  can’t  find  anything  to 
do;  but  I must  try  first — I must  try!” 

“O  Cicely,  this  is  pride,  the  same  sort  of  pride 
that  prevented  your  poor  papa  from  asking  for  any- 
thing  ” 

“Hush,  Aunt  Jane!  Whatever  he  did  was  right; 
but  I am  not  like  papa.  I don’t  mind  asking  so 
long  as  it  is  for  work.  I have  an  idea  now.  Poor 
Mrs.  Jones!  I am  very  very  sorry  for  her,  leaving 
her  children  desolate.  But  some  one  will  have  to 
come  in  her  place.  Why  should  it  not  be  me? 
There  is  a little  house  quite  comfortable  and  plea- 
sant where  I could  have  the  children;  and  I think 
the  parish  would  not  refuse  me,  if  it  was  only  for 
papa’s  sake.” 

“Cicely!  my  dear  child,  of  what  are  you  think- 
ing?” said  Miss  May  dew,  in  dismay.  “A  parish 
schoolmistress!  you  are  dreaming.  All  this  has 


THE  CURATE  LEAVES  BRENTBURN. 


275 


been  too  much  for  you.  My  dear,  my  dear,  you 
must  never  think  of  such  a thing  again 

‘‘O  Cicely,  it  is  not  a place  for  a lady,  surely,’^ 
cried  Mab. 

‘'Look  here,’^  said  Cicely,  the  colour  mounting 
to  her  face.  “I’d  take  in  washing  if  it  was  neces- 
sary, and  if  I knew  how.  A lady!  there’s  nothing 
about  ladies  that  I know  of  in  the  Bible.  What- 
ever a woman  can  do  I’m  ready  to  try,  and  I don’t 
care,  not  the  worth  of  a pin,  whether  it’s  a place 
for  a lady  or  not.  O Aunt  Jane,  I beg  your  pardon. 
I know  how  good  you  are — but  charity!  I can’t 
bear  the  thought  of  charity.  I must  try  my  own 
way.” 

“Cicely,  listen  to  me,”  cried  Aunt  Jane,  with 
tears.  “I  held  back,  for  the  children  are  not  my 
flesh  and  blood  as  you  are.  Perhaps  it  was  mean 
of  me  to  hold  back.  O Cicely,  I wanted  to  save 
what  I had  for  you;  but,  my  dear,  if  it  comes  to 
that,  better,  far  better,  that  you  should  bring  them 
to  London.  I don’t  say  I’m  fond  of  children,”  said 
Miss  Maydew;  “it’s  so  long  since  I had  anything 
to  do  with  them.  I don’t  say  but  what  they’d 
worry  me  sometimes;  but  bring  them.  Cicely,  and 
we’ll  do  what  we  can  to  get  on,  and  when  you  find 
a situation.  I’ll — I’ll — try ” 

Her  voice  sank  into  quavering  hesitation,  a sob 
interrupted  her.  She  was  ready  to  do  almost  all 
they  wanted  of  her,  but  this  was  hard;  still,  sooner 
than  sacrifice  her  niece’s  gentility,  the  standing  of 
the  famdly — Cicely  had  good  sense  enough  to  per- 
is’^ 


276 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


ceive  that  enough  had  been  said.  She  kissed  her 
aunt  heartily  with  tender  thanks,  but  she  did  not 
accept  her  offer  or  say  anything  further  about  her 
own  plans.  For  the  moment  nothing  could  be 
done,  whatever  the  decision  might  be. 


THE  rector’s  beginning. 


277 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

The  Rector’s  Beginning. 

Mr.  Mildmay  came  to  Brentburn  the  Saturday 
after  the  curate’s  death.  The  Ascotts  invited  him 
to  their  house,  and  he  went  there  feeling  more  like 
a culprit  than  an  innocent  man  has  any  right  to 
do.  He  fairly  broke  down  in  the  pulpit  next  day, 
in  the  little  address  he  made  to  the  people.  “God 
knows,”  he  said  to  them,  “that  I would  give  every- 
thing I have  in  the  world  to  bring  back  to  you  the 
familiar  voice  which  you  have  heard  here  so  long, 
and  which  had  the  teachings  of  a long  experience 
to  give  you,  teachings  more  precious  than  anything 
a new  beginner  can  say.  When  I think  that  but 
for  my  appointment  this  tragedy  might  not  have 
happened,  my  heart  sinks  within  me;  and  yet  I am 
blameless,  though  all  who  loved  him  have  a right 
to  blame  me.”  His  voice  quivered,  his  eyes  filled 
with  tears,  and  all  the  Brentburn  folks,  who  were 
not  struck  dumb  with  wonder,  wept.  But  many  of 
them  were  struck  dumb  with  wonder,  and  Mr. 
Ascott,  who  was  his  host,  and  felt  responsible  for 
him,  did  more  than  wonder.  He  interfered  ener- 
getically when  the  service  was  over.  “Mildmay,” 
he  said,  solemnly,  “mark  my  words,  this  will  never 
do.  You  are  no  more  to  blame  for  poor  St.  John’s 
death  than  I am  or  any  one,  and  nobody  has  a 


278 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


right  to  blame  you.  Good  heavens,  if  you  had 
never  heard  of  the  poor  fellow,  don’t  you  think  it 
would  have  happened  all  the  same?  You  did  a 
great  deal  more  than  any  one  else  would  have  done 
— is  that  why  you  think  it  is  your  fault?” 

Mildmay  did  not  make  any  reply  to  this  re- 
monstrance. Perhaps  after  he  had  said  it,  he  felt, 
as  so  many  impulsive  men  are  apt  to  do,  a hot 
nervous  shame  for  having  said  it,  and  betraying  his 
feelings;  but  he  would  not  discuss  the  question 
with  the  Ascotts,  who  had  no  self-reproach  in  the 
matter,  no  idea  that  any  one  could  have  helped  it. 
They  discussed  the  question  now,  the  first  shock 
being  over,  and  a comfortable  Sunday  put  between 
them  and  the  event,  with  great  calm. 

‘‘He  was  just  the  sort  of  man  that  would  not 
even  have  his  life  insured,”  said  Mr.  Ascott.  “What 
those  poor  girls  are  to  do,  I do  not  know.  Go 
out  for  governesses,  I suppose,  poor  things!  the 
common  expedient;  but  then  there  are  those  babies. 
There  ought  to  be  an  Act  of  Parliament  against 
second  families.  I never  had  any  patience  with 
that  marriage;  and  Miss  Brown,  I suppose,  had  no 
friends  that  could  take  them  up?” 

“None  that  I know  of,”  his  wife  replied.  “It 
is  a dreadful  burden  for  those  girls.  It  will  hamper 
them  in  their  situations,  if  they  get  situations,  and 

keep  them  from  marrying ” 

“They  are  pretty  girls,”  said  Mr.  Ascott.  “I 
don’t  see  why  they  shouldn’t  marry.” 

“That  is  all  very  well,  Henry,”  she  replied; 


THE  RECTOR^S  BEGINNING*  279 

‘‘but  what  man,  in  his  senses,  would  marry  a girl 
with  a couple  of  children  dependent  on  her?^^ 

“A  ready-made  family,’’  he  said,  with  a laugh. 

This  was  on  the  Sunday  evening  after  dinner. 
It  was  dusk,  and  they  could  not  see  their  guest’s 
face,  who  took  no  part  in  the  conversation.  To 
hear  such  a discussion  as  this,  touching  the  spoil- 
ing of  a girl’s  marriage,  is  quite  a commonplace 
matter,  which  the  greater  part  of  the  world  would 
think  it  foolishly  fastidious  to  object  to,  and  pro- 
bably Mr.  Mildmay  had  heard  such  talk  upon  other 
occasions  quite  unmoved;  but  it  is  astonishing  the 
difference  it  makes  when  you  know  the  girl  thus 
discussed,  and  have,  let  us  say,  “a  respect”  for  her. 
He  felt  the  blood  come  hot  to  his  face;  he  dared 
not  say  anything,  lest  he  should  say  too  much. 
Was  it  mere  poverty  that  exposed  those  forlorn 
young  creatures,  whose  case  surely  was  sad  enough 
to  put  all  laughter  out  of  court,  to  such  comment? 
Mrs.  Ascott  thought  it  quite  possible  that  Mr.  Mild- 
may, fresh  from  Oxford,  might  consider  female 
society  frivolous,  and  was  reserving  himself  for 
loftier  conversation  with  her  husband,  and  that  this 
was  the  reason  of  his  silence,  so  she  went  away 
smiling,  rustling  her  silken  skirts  to  the  drawing- 
room, in  the  humility  which  becomes  the  weaker 
vessel,  not  feeling  herself  equal  to  that  loftier 
strain,  to  make  the  gentlemen’s  tea. 

Her  husband,  however,  came  upstairs  after  her, 
by  himself  Mildmay  had  gone  out  for  a stroll, 
he  said,  and  seemed  to  prefer  being  alone;  he  was 


28o 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


afraid,  after  all,  he  was  a morose  sort  of  fellow, 
with  very  little  ‘‘go’’  in  him.  As  for  the  new 
rector,  he  was  very  glad  to  get  out  into  the  still- 
ness of  the  dewy  common  after  the  hot  room  and 
the  fumes  of  Mr.  Ascott’s  excellent  port,  which  he 
disliked,  being  altogether  a man  of  the  new  school. 
He  skirted  the  common  under  the  soft  light  of 
some  stars,  and  the  incipient  radiance  of  the  moon, 
which  had  not  yet  risen,  but  showed  that  she  was 
rising.  He  went  even  as  far  as  the  back  of  the 
rectory,  and  that  little  path  which  the  curate’s  feet 
had  worn,^which  he  followed  reverently  to  the  grey 
cross  upon  Hester’s  grave.  Here  a flood  of  peace- 
ful and  friendly  thoughts  came  over  the  young 
man,  bringing  the  tears  to  his  eyes.  He  had  only 
known  Mr.  St.  John  for  about  twenty-four  hours, 
yet  how  much  this  short  acquaintance  had  affected 
him!  He  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  a dear  old 
friend  when  he  remembered  the  few  moments  he 
had  stood  here,  six  weeks  before,  listening  to  the 
curate’s  simple  talk.  “The  lights  in  the  girls’  win- 
dows;”— there  they  were,  the  only  lights  in  the 
dark  house,  a glimmer  through  the  half- closed 
shutters.  Then  he  thought  of  the  old  man,  be- 
wildered with  death  and  death’s  weakness,  sitting 
with  his  wife’s  cloak  and  hat  ready,  waiting  for  her 
to  come  who  had  been  waiting  all  these  years 
under  the  sod  for  him  to  come.  “I  shall  go  to 
her,  but  she  will  not  come  to  me,”  said  the  new 
rector  to  himself,  letting  a tear  fall  upon  the  cross, 
where  the  curate’s  hand  had  rested  so  tenderly. 
His  heart  was  full  of  that  swelling  sensation  of 


THE  RECTOR^S  BEGINNING. 


281 


sympathetic  sorrow  which  is  both  sweet  and  pain- 
ful. And  she  was,  they  all  said,  so  like  her  mother. 
Would  any  one,  he  wondered,  think  of  her  some- 
times as  Mr.  St.  John  had  done  of  his  Hester?  Or 
would  nobody,  in  his  senses,  marry  a girl  burdened 
with  two  babies  dependent  on  her?  When  those 
words  came  back  to  his  mind,  his  cheeks  reddened, 
his  pace  quickened  in  a sudden  flush  of  anger. 
And  it  was  a woman  who  had  said  it — a woman 
whose  heart,  it  might  have  been  thought,  would 
have  bled  for  the  orphans,  not  much  more  than 
children  any  of  them,  who  were  thus  left  in  the 
world  to  struggle  for  themselves. 

It  was  Mildmay  who  took  all  the  trouble  about 
the  funeral,  and  read  the  service  himself,  with  a 
voice  full  of  emotion.  The  people  had  scarcely 
known  before  how  much  they  felt  the  loss  of  Mr. 
St.  John.  If  the  new  parson  was  thus  affected,  how 
much  more  ought  they  to  be!  Everybody  wept  in 
the  churchyard,  and  Mr.  Mildmay  laid  that  day  the 
foundation  of  a popularity  far  beyond  that  which  any 
clergyman  of  Brentburn,  within  the  memory  of  man, 
had  enjoyed  before.  ^‘He  was  so  feelin’  hearted,” 
the  poor  people  said;  they  shed  tears  for  the  old 
curate  who  was  gone,  but  they  became  suddenly 
enthusiasts  for  the  new  rector.  The  one  was  past, 
and  had  got  a beautiful  funeral,  carriages  coming 
from  all  parts  of  the  county;  and  what  could  man 
desire  more?  The  other  was  the  present,  cheerful 
and  full  of  promise.  A thrill  of  friendliness  ran 
through  every  corner  of  the  parish.  The  tragedy 
which  preceded  his  arrival^  strangely  enough,  made 


282 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


the  most  favourable  preface  possible  to  the  com- 
mencement of  the  new  reign. 

“Do  you  think  I might  call  upon  Miss  St. 
John?^^  Mildmay  asked,  the  second  day  after  the 
funeral.  “I  would  not  intrude  upon  her  for  the 
world;  but  they  will  be  going  away,  I suppose — and 
if  you  think  I might  venture 

He  addressed  Mrs.  Ascott,  but  her  husband  re- 
plied. “Venture?  to  be  sure  you  may  venture,^' 
said  that  cheerful  person.  “Of  course  you  must 
want  to  ascertain  when  they  go  and  all  that.  Come, 
1^11  go  with  you  myself  if  you  have  any  scruples. 
I should  like  to  see  Cicely,  poor  thing!  to  tell  her 

if  I can  be  of  any  use We  are  not  much  in 

the  governessing  line;  but  you,  Adelaide,  with  all 
your  fine  friends 

“Tell  her  I should  have  gone  to  her  before 
now,  but  that  my  nerves  have  been  upset  with  all 
that  has  happened,’^  said  Mrs.  Ascott.  “Of  course 
I have  written  and  told  her  how  much  I feel  for 
her;  but  say  everything  for  me,  Henry.  I will  make 
an  effort  to  go  to-morrow,  though  I know  that  to 
enter  that  house  will  unhinge  me  quite.  If  she  is 
able  to  talk  of  business,  tell  her  to  refer  any  one 
to  me.  Of  course  we  shall  do  everything  we  pos- 
sibly can.’^ 

“Of  course;  yes,  yes.  Til  say  everything said 
her  husband;  but  on  the  way,  when  Mildmay  reluc- 
tantly followed  him,  feeling  his  purpose  defeated, 
Mr.  Ascott  gave  forth  his  individual  sentiments. 
“Cicely  St.  John  will  never  answer  as  a governess,” 
he  said;  ‘‘she  is  far  too  independent,  and  proud — 


THE  RECTOR^S  BEGINNING. 


283 


very  proud.  So  was  her  father  before  her.  He 
prided  himself,  I believe,  on  never  having  asked 
for  anything.  God  bless  us!  a nice  sort  of  world 
this  would  be  if  nobody  asked  for  anything.  That 
girl  spoke  to  me  once  about  the  living  as  if  it  was 
my  business  to  do  something  in  respect  to  what 
she  thought  her  father's  rights!  Ridiculous!  but 
women  are  very  absurd  in  their  notions.  She  was 
always  what  is  called  a high-spirited  girl;  the  very 
worst  recommendation  I think  that  any  girl  can 
have." 

Mildmay  made  no  reply;  he  was  not  disposed 
to  criticise  Cicely,  or  to  discuss  her  with  Mr,  Ascott. 
The  rectory  was  all  open  again,  the  shutters  put 
back,  the  blinds  drawn  up.  In  the  faded  old 
drawing-room,  where  the  gentlemen  were  put  by 
Betsy  to  wait  for  Miss  St.  John,  everything  looked 
as  usual,  except  a scrap  of  paper  here  and  there 
marked  Lot — . This  had  been  done  by  the  auc- 
tioneer, before  Mr.  St.  John's  death.  Some  of  these 
papers  Betsy,  much  outraged  by  the  sight  of  them, 
had  furtively  rubbed  off  with  her  duster,  but  some 
remained.  Mr.  Mildmay  had  something  of  Betsy's 
feeling.  He,  too,  when  Mr.  Ascott  was  not  looking, 
tore  off  the  label  from  the  big  old  chiffonnier  which 
Mab  had  called  a tomb,  and  threw  it  behind  the 
ornaments  in  the  grate — a foolish  sort  of  demon- 
stration, no  doubt,  of  being  on  the  side  of  the 
forlorn  family  against  fate,  but  yet  comprehensible. 
He  did  not  venture  upon  any  such  freaks  when 
Cicely  came  in,  in  the  extreme  blackness  of  her 
mourning.  She  was  very  pale,  keeping  the  tears 


284 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


out  of  her  eyes  with  a great  effort,  and  strung  to 
the  highest  tension  of  self-control.  She  met  Mr. 
Ascott  with  composure;  but  when  she  turned  to 
Mildmay,  broke  down  for  the  moment.  “Thanks!” 
she  said,  with  a momentary  pressure  of  his  hand, 
and  an  attempt  at  a smile  in  the  eyes  which  filled 
at  sight  of  him,  and  it  took  her  a moment  to  re- 
cover herself  before  she  could  say  any  more. 

“Mrs.  Ascott  charged  me  with  a great  many 
messages,”  said  that  lady’s  husband.  “I  am  sure 
you  know.  Cicely,  nobody  has  felt  for  you  more; 
but  she  is  very  sensitive — that  you  know  too — and 
I am  obliged  to  interpose  my  authority  to  keep  her 
from  agitating  herself.  She  talks  of  coming  to- 
morrow. When  do  you  go?” 

“On  Saturday,”  said  Cicely,  having  just  re- 
covered the  power  of  speech,  which,  to  tell  the 
truth,  Mildmay  did  not  quite  feel  himself  to  have 
done. 

“On  Saturday — so  soon!  and  you  are  going — ” 
“With  my  aunt,  Miss  Maydew,”  said  Cicely,  “to 
London  for  a time — as  short  a time  as  possible — 
till  I get  something  to  do.” 

“Ah — h!”  said  Mr.  Ascott,  shaking  his  head. 
“You  know  how  sincerely  sorry  we  all  are;  and, 
my  dear  Cicely,  you  will  excuse  an  old  friend  asking, 
is  there  no  little  provision — nothing  to  fall  back 
upon — for  the  poor  little  children,  at  least?” 

“Mr.  Ascott,”  said  Cicely,  turning  full  towards 
him,  her  eyes  very  clear,  her  nostrils  dilating  a 
little — for  emotion  can  dry  the  eyes  as  well  as  dim 
themj  even  of  a girl — “you  know  what  papa  had 


THE  RECTOR^S  BEGINNING.  285 

almost  as  well  as  he  did  himself.  He  could  not 
coin  money;  and  how  do  you  think  he  could  have 
saved  it  off  what  he  had?  There  is  enough  to 
pay  every  penny  he  ever  owed,  which  is  all  I care 
for.^’ 

“And  you  have  nothing — absolutely  nothing?’^ 

“We  have  our  heads  and  our  hands,’'  said 
Cicely;  the  emergency  even  gave  her  strength  to 
smile.  She  faced  the  two  prosperous  men  before 
her,  neither  of  whom  had  ever  known  what  it  was 
to  want  anything  or  everything  that  money  could 
buy,  her  small  head  erect,  her  eyes  shining,  a smile 
upon  her  lip — not  for  worlds  would  she  have  per- 
mitted them  to  see  that  her  heart  failed  her  at 
sight  of  the  struggle  upon  which  she  was  about  to 
enter; — “and  fortunately  we  have  the  use  of  them,” 
she  said,  involuntarily  raising  the  two  small  hands, 
looking  all  the  smaller  and  whiter  for  the  blackness 
that  surrounded  them,  which  lay  on  her  lap. 

“Miss  St.  John,”  said  Mildmay,  starting  up,  “I 
dare  not  call  myself  an  old  friend.  I have  no 
right  to  be  present  when  you  have  to  answer  such 
questions.  If  I may  come  another  time ” 

To  look  at  his  sympathetic  face  took  away 
Cicely’s  courage.  “Don’t  make  me  cry,  please; 
don’t  be  sorry  for  me!”  she  cried,  under  her 
breath,  holding  out  her  hands  to  him  in  a kind  of 
mute  appeal.  Then  recovering  herself,  “I  would 
rather  you  stayed,  Mr.  Mildmay.  I am  not  ashamed 
of  it,  and  I want  to  ask  something  from  you,  now 
that  you  are  both  here.  I do  not  know  who  has 
the  appointment;  but  you  must  be  powerful.  Mr, 


286 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


Ascott,  I hear  that  Mrs.  Jones,  the  schoolmistress, 
is  dead — too.’^ 

“Yes,  poor  thing!  very  suddenly — even  more 
suddenly  than  your  poor  father.  And  so  much 
younger,  and  an  excellent  creature.  It  has  been  a 
sad  -week  for  Brentburn.  She  was  buried  yester- 
day,” said  Mr.  Ascott,  shaking  his  head. 

“And  there  must  be  some  one  to  replace  her 
directly,  for  the  holidays  are  over.  I am  not  very 
accomplished,”  said  Cicely,  a flush  coming  over 
her  face;  “but  for  the  rudiments  and  the  solid  part, 
which  is  all  that  is  wanted  in  a parish  school,  I am 
good  enough.  It  is  difficult  asking  for  one’s  self, 
or  talking  of  one’s  self,  but  if  I could  get  the 
place ” 

“Cicely  St.  John!”  cried  Mr.  Ascott,  almost 
roughly  in  his  amazement;  “you  are  going  out 
of  your  senses — the  appointment  to  the  parish 
school?” 

“I  know  what  you  think,”  said  Cicely,  looking 
up  with  a smile;  but  she  was  nervous  with  anxiety, 
and  clasped  and  unclasped  her  hands,  feeling  that 
her  fate  hung  upon  what  they  might  decide.  “You 
think,  like  Aunt  Jane,  that  it  is  coming  down  in 
the  world,  that  it  is  not  a place  for  a lady.  Very 
well,  I don’t  mind;  don’t  call  me  a lady,  call  me  a 
young  woman — a person  even,  if  you  like.  What 
does  it  matter?  and  what  difference  does  it  make 
after  all?”  she  cried.  “No  girl  who  works  for  her 
living  is  anything  but  looked  down  upon.  I should 
be  free  of  all  that,  for  the  poor  people  know  me, 
and  they  would  be  kind  to  me,  and  the  rich 


THE  rector’s  beginning.  287 

people  would  take  no  notice.  And  I should  have 
a place  of  my  own,  a home  to  put  the  children 
in.  The  Miss  Blandys,  I am  sure,  would  recom- 
mend me,  Mr.  Mildmay,  and  they  know  what  I 
can  do.” 

“This  is  mere  madness!”  cried  Mr.  Ascott,  pal- 
ing a little  in  his  ruddy  complexion.  Mildmay  made 
a rush  at  the  window  as  she  spoke,  feeling  the  situa- 
tion intolerable.  When  she  appealed  to  him  thus 
by  name,  he  turned  round  suddenly,  his  heart  so 
swelling  within  him  that  he  scarcely  knew  what  he 
was  doing.  It  was  not  for  him  to  object  or  to 
remonstrate  as  the  other  could  do.  He  went  up 
to  her,  scarcely  seeing  her,  and  grasped  for  a mo- 
ment her  nervous  interlaced  hands.  “Miss  St.  John,” 
he  cried,  in  a broken  voice,  “whatever  you  want 
that  I can  get  you,  you  shall  have — that,  if  it  must 
be  so,  or  anything  else,”  and  so  rushed  out  of  the 
room  and  out  of  the  house,  passing  Mab  in  the 
hall  without  seeing  her.  His  excitement  was  so  great 
that  he  rushed  straight  on,  into  the  heart  of  the 
pine- woods  a mile  off,  before  he  came  to  himself. 
Well!  this,  then,  was  the  life  he  had  been  wonder- 
ing over  from  his  safe  retirement.  He  found  it  not 
in  anything  great  or  visible  to  the  eye  of  the  world, 
not  in  anything  he  could  put  himself  into,  or  share 
the  advantages  of.  He,  well  off,  rich  indeed,  strong, 
with  a man’s  power  of  work,  and  so  many  kinds  of 
highly-paid,  highly-esteemed  work  open  to  him,  must 
stand  aside  and  look  on,  and  see  this  slight  girl, 
nineteen  years  old,  with  not  a tittle  of  his  educa- 
tion or  his  strength,  and  not  two-thirds  of  his  years, 


288 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


put  herself  into  harness,  and  take  up  the  lowly 
work  which  would  sink  her  in  social  estimation, 
and,  with  all  superficial  persons,  take  away  from 
her  her  rank  as  gentlewoman.  The  situation,  so 
far  as  Cicely  St.  John  was  concerned,  was  not 
remarkable  one  way  or  another,  except  in  so  much 
as  she  had  chosen  to  be  village  schoolmistress 
instead  of  governess  in  a private  family.  But  to 
Mildmay  it  was  as  a revelation.  He  could  do  no- 
thing except  get  her  the  place,  as  he  had  promised 
to  do.  He  could  not  say,  Take  part  of  my  in- 
come; I have  more  than  I know  what  to  do  with, 
though  that  was  true  enough.  He  could  do  nothing 
for  her,  absolutely  nothing.  She  must  bear  her 
burden  as  she  could  upon  her  young  shrinking 
shoulders;  nay,  not  shrinking — when  he  remem- 
bered Cicely’s  look,  he  felt  something  come  into 
his  throat.  People  had  stood  at  the  stake  so,  he 
supposed,  head  erect,  eyes  smiling,  a beautiful  dis- 
dain of  the  world  they  thus  defied  and  confronted 
in  their  shining  countenances.  But  again  he  stop- 
ped himself;  Cicely  was  not  defiant,  not  contemp- 
tuous, took  upon  her  no  role  of  martyr.  If  she 
smiled,  it  was  at  the  folly  of  those  who  supposed 
she  would  break  down,  or  give  in,  or  fail  of  courage 
for  her  work;  but  nothing  more.  She  was,  on  the 
contrary,  nervous  about  his  consent  and  Ascott’s  to 
give  her  the  work  she  wanted,  and  hesitated  about 
her  own  powers  and  the  recommendation  of  the 
Miss  Blandys;  and  no  one — not  he,  at  least,  though 
he  had  more  than  he  wanted — could  do  anything! 
If  Cicely  had  been  a lad  of  nineteen,  instead  of  a 


THE  RECTOR^S  BEGINNING.  ^8g 

girl,  something  might  have  been  possible,  but  no- 
thing was  possible  now. 

The  reader  will  perceive  that  the  arbitrary  and 
fictitious  way  of  cutting  this  knot,  that  tour  de force 
which  is  always  to  be  thought  of  in  every  young 
woman’s  story,  the  very  melodramatic  begging  of 
the  question,  still,  and  perennially  possible,  nay 
probable,  in  human  affairs,  had  not  occurred  to 
Mildmay.  He  had  felt  furious  indeed  at  the  dis- 
cussion of  Cicely’s  chances  or  non-chances  of  mar- 
riage between  the  Ascotts;  but,  so  far  as  he  was 
himself  concerned,  he  had  not  thought  of  this  easy 
way.  For  why?  he  was  not  in  love  with  Cicely. 
His  sympathy  was  with  her  in  every  possible  way, 
he  entered  into  her  grief  with  an  almost  tenderness 
of  pity,  and  her  courage  stirred  him  with  that  thrill 
of  fellow-feeling  which  those  have  who  could  do 
the  same;  though  he  felt  that  nothing  he  could 
do  could  ever  be  the  same  as  what  she,  at  her  age, 
so  boldly  undertook.  Mildmay  felt  that  she  could, 
if  she  pleased,  command  him  to  anything,  that,  out 
of  mere  admiration  for  her  bravery,  her  strength, 
her  weakness,  and  youngness  and  dauntless  spirit, 
he  could  have  refused  her  nothing,  could  have 
dared  even  the  impossible  to  help  her  in  any  of 
her  schemes.  But  he  was  not  in  love  with  Cicely; 
or,  at  least,  he  had  no  notion  of  anything  of  the 
kind. 

It  was  well,  however,  that  he  did  not  think  of 
it;  the  sudden  “good  marriage,”  which  is  the  one 
remaining  way  in  which  a god  out  of  the  machinery 

The  Curate  in  Charge^  19 


290  THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 

can  change  wrong  into  right  at  any  moment  in  the 
modern  world,  and  make  all  sunshine  that  was 
darkness,  comes  dreadfully  in  the  way  of  heroic 
story;  and  how  such  a possibility,  not  pushed  back 
into  obscure  regions  of  hazard,  but  visibly  happen- 
ing before  their  eyes  every  day,  should  not  demo- 
ralize young  women  altogether,  it  is  difficult  to 
say.  That  Cicely^s  brave  undertaking  ought  to 
come  to  some  great  result  in  itself,  that  she  ought 
to  be  able  to  make  her  way  nobly,  as  her  purpose 
was,  working  with  her  hands  for  the  children  that 
were  not  hers,  bringing  them  up  to  be  men,  having 
that  success  in  her  work  which  is  the  most  pleasant 
of  all  recompenses,  and  vindicating  her  sacrifice 
and  self-devotion  in  the  sight  of  all  who  had  scoffed 
and  doubted — this,  no  doubt,  would  be  the  highest 
and  best,  the  most  heroical  and  epical  development 
of  story.  To  change  all  her  circumstances  at  a 
stroke,  making  her  noble  intention  unnecessary,  and 
resolving  this  tremendous  work  of  hers  into  a gentle 
domestic  necessity,  with  the  ‘^hey  presto!’^  of  the 
commonplace  magician,  by  means  of  a marriage,  is 
simply  a contemptible  expedient.  But,  alas!  it  is 
one  which  there  can  be  no  doubt  is  much  pre- 
ferred by  most  people  to  the  more  legitimate  con- 
clusion; and,  what  is  more,  he  would  be  justified 
by  knowing  the  accidental  way  is  perhaps,  on  the 
whole,  the  most  likely  one,  since  marriages  occur 
every  day  which  are  perfectly  improbable  and  out 
of  character,  mere  tours  de  force^  despicable  as  ex- 
pedients, showing  the  poorest  invention,  a disgrace 
to  any  romancist  or  dramatist,  if  they  were  not 


THE  rector’s  beginning.  2QI 

absolute  matters  of  fact  and  true.  Pardon  the 
parenthesis,  gentle  reader. 

But  Mr.  Mildmay  was  not  in  love  with  Cicely, 
and  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  it  might  be  pos- 
sible to  settle  matters  in  this  ordinary  and  expedi- 
tious way. 

Mr.  Ascott  remained  behind  when  Mildmay  went 
away,  and  with  the  complacence  of  a dull  man 
apologised  for  his  young  friend’s  abrupt  departure. 
“He  is  so  shocked  about  all  this,  you  must  excuse 
his  abruptness.  It  is  not  that  he  is  without  feeling 
— quite  the  reverse,  I assure  you,  Cicely.  He  has 
felt  it  all — your  poor  father’s  death,  and  all  that 
has  happened.  You  should  have  heard  him  in 
church  on  Sunday.  He  feels  for  you  all  very 
much.” 

Cicely,  still  trembling  from  the  sudden  touch 
on  her  hands,  the  agitated  sound  of  Mildmay’s 
voice,  the  sense  of  sympathy  and  comprehension 
which  his  looks  conveyed,  took  this  apology  very 
quietly.  She  was  even  conscious  of  the  humour  in 
it.  And  this  digression  being  over,  “her  old  friend” 
returned  seriously  to  the  question.  He  repeated, 
but  with  much  less  force,  all  that  Miss  Maydew 
had  said.  He  warned  her  that  she  would  lose 
“caste,”  that,  however  much  her  friends  might  wish 
to  be  kind  to  her,  and  to  treat  her  exactly  as  her 
father’s  daughter  ought  to  be  treated,  that  she  would 
find  all  that  sort  of  thing  very  difficult.  “As  a 
governess,  of  course  you  would  always  be  known 
as  a lady,  and  when  you  met  with  old  friends  it 
would  be  a mutual  pleasure;  but  the  village  school- 

19* 


292 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


mistress!’^  said  Mr.  Ascott;  “I  really  don’t  like  to 
mention  it  to  Adelaide,  I don’t  know  what  she 
would  say.” 

“She  would  understand  me  when  she  took  all 
into  consideration,”  said  Cicely.  “I  could  be  then 
at  home,  independent,  with  the  little  boys.” 

“Ah,  independent.  Cicely!”  he  cried;  “now  you 
show  the  cloven  hoof — that  is  the  charm.  Inde- 
pendent! What  woman  can  ever  be  independent? 
That  is  your  pride;  it  is  just  what  I expected.  An 
independent  woman,  Cicely,  is  an  anomaly;  men 
detest  the  very  name  of  it;  and  you,  who  are  young, 
and  on  your  promotion — ” 

“I  must  be  content  with  women  then,”  said 
Cicely,  colouring  high  with  something  of  her  old 
impetuosity;  “they  will  understand  me.  But,  Mr, 
Ascott,  at  least,  even  if  you  disapprove  of  me,  don’t 
go  against  me,  for  I cannot  bring  up  the  children 
in  any  other  way.” 

“You  could  put  them  out  to  nurse.” 

“Where?”  cried  Cicely;  “and  who  would  take 
care  of  them  for  the  money  I could  give?  They 
are  too  young  for  school;  and  I have  no  money 
for  that  either.  If  there  is  any  other  way,  I cannot 
see  it;  do  not  go  against  me  at  least.” 

This  he  promised  after  a while,  very  doubtfully, 
and  by  and  by  went  home,  to  talk  it  over  with  his 
wife,  who  was  as  indignant  as  he  could  have  wished. 
“What  an  embarrassment  it  will  be!”  she  cried. 
“Henry,  I tell  you  beforehand,  I will  not  ask  her 
here.  I cannot  in  justice  to  ourselves  ask  her  here 
if  she  is  the  schoolmistress.  She  thinks,  of  course, 


THE  rector’s  beginning. 


293 


we  will  make  no  difference,  but  treat  her  always 
like  Mr.  St.  John’s  daughter.  It  is  quite  out  of  the 
question.  I must  let  her  know  at  once  that  Cicely 
St.  John  is  one  thing  and  the  parish  schoolmistress 
another.  Think  of  the  troubles  that  might  rise  out 
of  it.  A pretty  thing  it  would  be  if  some  young 
man  in  our  house  was  to  form  an  attachment  to 
the  schoolmistress!  Fancy!  She  can  do  it  if  she 
likes;  but,  Henry,  I warn  you,  I shall  not  ask  her 
here.” 

“That’s  exactly  what  I say,”  said  Mr.  Ascott. 
can’t  think  even  how  she  could  like  to  stay  on 
here  among  people  who  have  known  her  in  a dif- 
ferent position:  unless — ” he  concluded  with  a low 
whistle  of  derision  and  surprise. 

“Please  don’t  be  vulgar,  Henry — unless  what?” 

“Unless — she’s  after  Mildmay;  and  I should  not 
wonder — he’s  as  soft  as  wax  and  as  yielding.  If  a 
girl  like  Cicely  chooses  to  tell  him  to  marry  her, 
he’d  do  it.  That’s  what  she’s  after,  as  sure  as 
fate.” 


294 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  Parish  Schoolmistress. 

I WILL  not  follow  all  the  intermediate  steps, 
and  tell  how  the  curate’s  family  left  their  home, 
and  went  to  London;  or  how  Miss  Maydew  made 
the  most  conscientious  effort  to  accustom  herself 
to  the  little  boys,  and  to  contemplate  the  possibility 
of  taking  the  oversight  of  them.  They  were  not 
noisy,  it  is  true;  but  that  very  fact  alarmed  Aunt 
Jane,  who  declared  that,  had  they  been  ‘‘natural 
children,”  always  tumbling  about,  and  making  the 
walls  ring,  she  could  have  understood  them.  Per- 
haps, had  they  been  noisy,  she  would  have  felt  at 
once  the  superiority  of  “quiet  children.”  As  it 
was,  the  two  little  tiny,  puny  old  men  appalled  the 
old  lady,  who  watched  them  with  fascinated  eyes, 
and  a visionary  terror,  which  grew  stronger  every 
day.  Sometimes  she  would  jump  up  in  a passion 
and  flee  to  her  own  room  to  take  breath,  when  the 
thought  of  having  them  to  take  care  of  came  sud- 
denly upon  her.  And  thus  it  came  about  that  her 
opposition  to  Cicely’s  scheme  gradually  softened. 
It  was  a bitter  pill  to  her.  To  think  of  a Miss  St. 
John,  Hester’s  child,  dropping  into  the  low  degree 
of  a parish  schoolmistress,  went  to  her  very  heart; 
but  what  was  to  be  done?  How  could  she  oppose 
a thing  Cicely  had  set  her  heart  upon?  Cicely  was 


THE  PARISH  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


^95 


not  one  to  make  up  a scheme  without  some  reason 
in  it;  and  you  might  as  well  (Miss  May  dew  said  to 
herself)  try  to  move  St.  PauFs,  when  the  girl  had 
once  made  up  her  mind.  I do  not  think  Cicely 
was  so  obstinate  as  this,  but  it  was  a comfort  to 
Miss  Maydew  to  think  so.  And  after  everybody 
had  got  over  their  surprise  at  the  idea,  Miss  St. 
John  was  duly  installed  as  the  schoolmistress  at 
Brentburn.  The  few  little  bits  of  furniture  which 
had  belonged  to  them  in  the  rectory — the  children's 
little  beds,  the  old  faded  carpets,  etc. — helped  to 
furnish  the  schoolmistress’s  little  house.  Cicely 
took  back  the  little  Annie  whom  she  had  sent  away 
from  the  rectory  for  interfering  with  her  own  autho- 
rity, but  whose  devotion  to  the  children  was  invalu- 
able now,  and  no  later  than  October  settled  down 
to  this  curious  new  life.  It  was  a very  strange  life. 
The  schoolmistress’s  house  was  a new  little  square 
house  of  four  rooms,  with  no  beauty  to  recommend 
it,  but  with  little  garden  plots  in  front  of  it,  and  a 
large  space  behind  where  the  children  could  play. 
The  little  kitchen,  the  little  parlour,  the  two  little 
bedrooms  were  all  as  homely  as  could  be.  Cicely 
had  the  old  school-room  piano,  upon  which  her 
mother  had  taught  her  the  notes,  and  which  Miss 
Brown  had  shed  tears  over  on  that  unfortunate  day 
when  Mr.  St.  John  proposed  to  marry  her  rather 
than  let  her  go  back  to  the  Governesses’  Institute 
— and  she  had  a few  books.  These  were  all  that 
represented  to  her  the  more  beautiful  side  of  life: 
but  at  nineteen,  fortunately,  life  itself  is  still  beauti- 
ful enough  to  make  up  for  many  deprivations,  and 


2q6 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


she  had  a great  deal  to  do.  As  for  her  work,  she 
said,  it  was  quite  as  pleasant  to  teach  the  parish 
children  as  to  teach  the  little  ladies  at  Miss  Blandy's; 
and  the  ‘‘parents”  did  not  look  down  upon  her, 
which  was  something  gained. 

And  it  was  some  time  before  Cicely  awoke  to 
the  evident  fact  that,  if  the  parents  did  not  look 
down  upon  her,  her  old  acquaintances  were  much 
embarrassed  to  know  how  to  behave  to  her.  Mrs. 
Ascott  had  gone  to  see  her  at  once  on  her  arrival, 
and  had  been  very  kind,  and  had  hoped  they  would 
see  a great  deal  of  her.  On  two  or  three  occasions 
after  she  sent  an  invitation  to  tea  in  the  evening, 
adding  always,  “We  shall  be  quite  alone.”  “Why 
should  they  be  always  quite  alone?”  the  girl  said 
to  herself;  and  then  she  tried  to  think  it  was  out  of 
consideration  for  her  mourning.  But  it  soon  be- 
came visible  enough  what  Mrs.  Ascott  meant,  and 
what  all  the  other  people  meant.  Even  as  the 
curate’s  daughter  Cicely  had  but  been  a girl  whom 
they  were  kind  to;  now  she  was  the  parish  school- 
mistress— “a  very  superior  young  person,  quite 
above  her  position,”  but  belonging  even  by  courtesy 
to  the  higher  side  no  more.  She  was  not  made  to 
feel  this  brutally.  It  was  all  quite  gently,  quite 
prettily  done;  but  by  the  time  spring  came,  brighten- 
ing the  face  of  the  country.  Cicely  was  fully  aware 
of  the  change  in  her  position,  and  had  accepted  it 
as  best  she  could.  She  was  still,  eight  months  after 
her  father’s  death — so  faithful  is  friendship  in  some 
cases — asked  to  tea,  when  they  were  quite  alone  at 
the  Heath;  but  otherwise,  by  that  time,  most  people 


THE  PARISH  SCHOOLMISTRESS, 


297 


had  ceased  to  take  any  notice  of  her.  She  dropped 
out  of  sight  except  at  church,  where  she  was  only 
to  be  seen  in  her  plain  black  dress  in  her  corner 
among  the  children;  and  though  the  ladies  and 
gentlemen  shook  hands  with  her  still,  when  she 
came  in  their  way,  no  one  went  out  of  his  or  her 
way  to  speak  to  the  schoolmistress.  It  would  be 
vain  to  say  that  there  was  no  mortification  involved 
in  this  change.  Cicely  felt  it  in  every  fibre  of  her 
sensitive  frame,  by  moments;  but  fortunately  her 
temperament  was  elastic,  and  she  possessed  all  the 
delicate  strength  which  is  supposed  to  distinguish 
‘‘blood.’^  She  was  strong,  and  light  as  a daisy, 
jumping  up  under  the  very  foot  that  crushed  her. 
This  kind  of  nature  makes  its  possessor  survive  and 
surmount  many  things  that  are  death  to  the  less 
elastic;  it  saves  from  destruction,  but  it  does  not 
save  from  pain. 

As  for  Mr.  Mildmay,  it  was  soon  made  very 
apparent  to  him  that,  for  him  at  his  age  to  show 
much  favour  or  friendship  to  the  schoolmistress  at 
hers,  was  entirely  out  of  the  question.  He  had  to 
visit  the  school,  of  course,  in  the  way  of  his  duty, 
but  to  visit  Cicely  was  impossible.  People  even 
remarked  upon  the  curious  frequency  with  which 
he  passed  the  school.  Wherever  he  was  going  in 
the  parish  (they  said),  his  road  seemed  to  turn  that 
way,  which,  of  course,  was  highly  absurd,  as  every 
reasonable  person  must  see.  There  was  a side 
window  by  which  the  curious  passer-by  could  see 
the  interior  of  the  school  as  he  passed,  and  it  was 
true  that  the  new  rector  was  interested  in  that  peep. 


2g& 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


There  were  the  homely  children  in  their  forms,  at 
their  desks,  or  working  in  the  afternoon  at  their 
homely  needlework:  among  them,  somewhere,  some- 
times conning  little  lessons  with  portentous  gravity, 
the  two  little  boys  in  their  black  frocks,  and  the 
young  schoolmistress  seated  at  her  table;  sometimes 
(the  spy  thought)  with  a flush  of  weariness  upon 
her  face.  The  little  house  was  quite  empty  during 
the  school-hours;  for  Annie  was  a scholar  too,  and 
aspiring  to  be  pupil-teacher  some  day,  and  now  as 
reverent  of  Miss  St.  John  as  she  had  once  been  criti- 
cal. Mildmay  went  on  his  way  after  that  peep 
with  a great  many  thoughts  in  his  heart.  It  became 
a kind  of  necessity  to  him  to  pass  that  way,  to  see 
her  at  her  work.  Did  she  like  it,  he  wondered? 
How  different  it  was  from  his  own!  how  different 
the  position — the  estimation  of  the  two  in  the 
world's  eye!  He  who  could  go  and  come  as  he 
liked,  who  honoured  the  parish  by  condescending 
to  become  its  clergyman,  and  to  whom  a great 
many  little  negligences  would  have  been  forgiven, 
had  he  liked,  in  consequence  of  his  scholarship, 
and  his  reputation,  and  his  connections.  “We  can't 
expect  a man  like  Mildmay,  fresh  from  a University 
life,  to  go  pottering  about  among  the  sick  like  poor 
old  St.  John,"  Mr.  Ascott  would  say.  “That  is  all 
very  well,  but  a clergyman  here  and  there  who 
takes  a high  position  for  the  Church  in  society  is 
more  important  still."  And  most  people  agreed 
with  him ; and  Roger  Mildmay  went  about  his 
parish  with  his  head  in  the  clouds,  still  wondering 
where  life  was — that  life  which  would  string  the 


THE  PARISH  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


299 


nerves  and  swell  the  veins,  and  put  into  man  the 
soul  of  a hero.  He  passed  the  school-room  window 
as  often  as  he  could,  in  order  to  see  it  afar  off — 
that  life  which  seemed  to  him  the  greatest  of  all 
things;  but  he  had  not  yet  found  it  himself.  He 
did  all  he  could,  as  well  as  he  knew  how,  to  be  a 
worthy  parish  priest.  He  was  very  kind  to  every- 
body; he  went  to  see  the  sick,  and  tried  to  say 
what  he  could  to  them  to  soothe  and  console  them. 
What  could  he  say?  When  he  saw  a man  of  his 
own  age  growing  into  a gaunt  great  skeleton  with 
consumption,  with  a wistful  wife  looking  on,  and 
poor  little  helpless  children,  what  could  the  young 
rector  say?  His  heart  would  sw^ell  with  a great 
pang  of  pity,  and  he  would  read  the  prayers  with  a 
faltering  voice,  and,  going  away  wretched,  would 
lavish  wine  and  soup,  and  everything  he  could  think 
of,  upon  the  invalid;  but  what  could  he  say  to  him, 
he  whose  very  health  and  wealth  and  strength  and 
well-being  seemed  an  insult  to  the  dying?  The 
dying  did  not  think  so,  but  Mildmay  did,  whose 
very  soul  was  wrung  by  such  sights.  Then,  for 
lighter  matters,  the  churchwardens  and  the  parish 
business  sickened  him  with  their  fussy  foolishness 
about  trifles;  and  the  careful  doling  out  of  shillings 
from  the  parish  charities  would  have  made  him 
furious,  had  he  not  known  that  his  anger  was  more 
foolish  still.  For  his  own  part,  he  lavished  his 
money  about,  giving  it  to  everybody  who  told  him 
a pitiful  story,  in  a reckless  way,  which,  if  per- 
severed in,  would  ruin  the  parish.  And  when  any 
one  went  to  him  for  advice,  he  had  to  bite  his  lip 


300 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


in  order  not  to  say  the  words  which  were  on  the 
very  tip  of  his  tongue  longing  to  be  said,  and  which 
were,  *‘Go  to  Cicely  St.  John  at  the  school  and 
ask.  It  is  she  who  is  living,  not  me.  I am  a ghost 
like  all  the  rest  of  you.”  This  was  the  leading 
sentiment  in  the  young  man’s  mind. 

As  for  Cicely,  she  had  not  the  slightest  notion 
that  any  one  thought  of  her  so,  or  thought  of  her 
at  all,  and  sometimes  as  the  excitement  of  the  be- 
ginning died  away  she  felt  her  'life  a weary  business 
enough.  No  society  but  little  Harry,  who  always 
wanted  his  tea,  and  Charley,  with  his  thumb  in  his 
mouth;  and  those  long  hours  with  the  crowd  of 
little  girls  around  her,  who  were  not  amusing  to 
have  all  day  long  as  they  used  to  be  for  an  hour 
now  and  then,  when  the  clergyman’s  daughter 
went  in  among  them,  received  by  the  schoolmistress 
curtsying,  and  with  smiles  and  bobs  by  the  children, 
and  carrying  a pleasant  excitement  with  her.  How 
Mab  and  she  had  laughed  many  a day  over  the 
funny  answers  and  funnier  questions;  but  they  were 
not  funny  now.  When  Mab  came  down,  now  and 
then,  from  Saturday  to  Monday,  with  all  her  eager 
communications  about  her  work.  Cicely  remembered 
that  she  too  was  a girl,  and  they  were  happy 
enough;  but  in  the  long  dull  level  of  the  days  after 
Mab  had  gone  she  used  to  think  to  herself  that  she 
must  be  a widow  without  knowing  it,  left  after  all 
the  bloom  of  life  was  over  with  her  children  to 
work  for.  ‘‘But  even  that  would  be  better,”  Cicely 
said  to  herself;  “for  then,  at  least,  I should  be  silly 
about  the  children,  and  think  them  angels,  and 


THE  PARISH  SCHOOLMISTRESS.  30I 

adore  them  ” Even  that  consolation  did  not  exist 
for  her.  Mab  was  working  very  hard,  and  there 
had  dawned  upon  her  a glorious  prospect,  not  yet 
come  to  anything,  but  which  might  mean  the  height 
of  good  fortune.  Do  not  let  the  reader  think  less 
well  of  Mab  because  this  was  not  the  highest  branch 
of  art  which  she  was  contemplating.  It  was  not 
that  she  hoped  at  eighteen  and  a half  to  send  some 
great  picture  to  the  Academy,  which  should  be 
hung  on  the  line,  and  at  once  take  the  world  by 
storm.  What  she  thought  of  was  the  homelier  path 
of  illustrations.  “If,  perhaps,  one  was  to  take  a 
little  trouble,  and  try  to  find  out  what  the  book 
means,  and  how  the  author  saw  a scene Mab 
said;  “they  don^t  do  that  in  the  illustrations  one 
sees:  the  author  says  one  thing,  the  artist  quite  an- 
other— that,  I suppose,  is  because  the  artist  is  a 
great  person  and  does  not  mind.  But  I am  nobody. 
I should  try  to  make  out  what  the  reading  meant, 
and  follow  that.”  This  was  her  hope,  and  whether 
she  succeeds  or  not,  and  though  she  called  a book 
“the  reading,”  those  who  write  will  be  grateful  to 
the  young  artist  for  this  thought.  “Remember  I 
am  the  brother  and  you  are  the  sister,”  cried  Mab. 
It  was  on  the  way  to  the  station  on  a Sunday  even- 
ing— for  both  of  the  girls  had  to  begin  work  early 
next  morning — that  this  was  said.  “And  as  soon 
as  I make  money  enough  you  are  to  come  and  keep 
my  house.”  Cicely  kissed  her,  and  went  through 
the  usual  process  of  looking  for  a woman  who  was 
going  all  the  way  to  London  in  one  of  the  car- 
riages. This  was  not  very  like  the  brother  theory, 


302 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


but  Mab  was  docile  as  a child.  And  then  the 
elder  sister  walked  home  through  the  spring  dark- 
ness with  her  heart  full,  wondering  if  that  reunion 
would  ever  be. 

Mr.  Mildmay  had  been  out  that  evening  at 
dinner  at  the  Ascotts,  where  he  very  often  went  on 
Sunday.  The  school  was  not  at  all  in  the  way  be- 
tween the  Heath  and  the  rectory,  yet  Cicely  met 
him  on  her  way  back.  It  was  a May  evening,  soft 
and  sweet,  with  the  bloom  of  the  hawthorn  on  all  the 
hedges,  and  Cicely  was  walking  along  slowly,  glad 
to  prolong  as  much  as  possible  that  little  oasis  in 
her  existence  which  Mab’s  visit  made.  She  was 
surprised  to  hear  the  rector’s  voice  so  close  to  her. 
They  walked  on  together  for  a few  steps  without 
finding  anything  very  particular  to  say.  Then  each 
forestalled  the  other  in  a question. 

‘T  hope  you  are  liking  Brentburn?”  said  Cicely. 

And  Mr.  Mildmay,  in  the  same  breath,  said: 
^‘Miss  St.  John,  I hope  you  do  not  regret  coming 
to  the  school?” 

Cicely,  who  had  the  most  composure,  was  the 
first  to  reply.  She  laughed  softly  at  the  double 
question. 

“It  suits  me  better  than  anything  else  would,” 
she  said.  “I  did  not  pretend  to  take  it  as  a matter 
of  choice.  It  does  best  in  my  circumstances;  but 
you,  Mr.  Mildmay?” 

“I  want  so  much  to  know  about  you,”  he  said, 
hurriedly.  ‘T  have  not  made  so  much  progress  my- 
self as  I hoped  I should;  but  you?  I keep  thinking 
of  you  all  the  time.  Don’t  think  me  impertinent, 


THE  PARISH  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


303 


Are  you  happy  in  it?  Do  you  feel  the  satisfaction 
of  living,  as  it  seems  to  me  you  must?^^ 

“Happy? said  Cicely,  with  a low  faint  laugh. 
Then  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  She  looked  at  him 
wistfully,  wondering.  He  so  well  off,  she  so  poor 
and  restricted.  By  what  strange  wonder  was  it  that 
he  put  such  a question  to  her?  “Do  you  think  I 
have  much  cause  to  be  happy?’'  she  said;  then 
added  hastily,  “I  don’t  complain,  I am  not  ////happy 
• — we  get  on  very  well.” 

“Miss  St.  John,”  he  said,  “I  have  spoken  to  you 
about  myself  before  now.  I came  here  out  of  a 
sort  of  artificial  vegetation,  or  at  least,  so  I felt  it, 
with  the  idea  of  getting  some  hold  upon  life — true 
life.  I don’t  speak  of  the  misery  that  attended  my 
coming  here,  for  that,  I suppose,  was  nobody’s  fault, 
as  people  say;  and  now  I have  settled  down  again. 
I have  furnished  my  house,  made  what  is  called  a 
home  for  myself,  though  an  empty  one;  and  lo, 
once  more  I find  myself  as  I was  at  Oxford,  looking 
at  life  from  outside,  spying  upon  other  people’s 
lives,  going  to  gaze  at  it  enviously  as  I do  at  you 
through  the  end  window ” 

“Mr.  Mildmayl”  Cicely  felt  her  cheeks  grow 
hot,  and  was  glad  it  was  dark  so  that  no  one  could 
see.  “I  am  a poor  example,”  she  said,  with  a smile. 
“I  think,  if  you  called  it  vegetation  with  me,  you 
would  be  much  more  nearly  right  than  when  you 
used  that  word  about  your  life  at  Oxford,  which 
must  have  been  full  of  everything  impossible  to  me. 
Mine  is  vegetation;  the  same  things  to  be  done  at 
the  same  hours  every  day;  the  poor  little  round  of 


304 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


spelling  and  counting,  never  getting  beyond  the 
rudiments.  Nobody  above  the  age  of  twelve,  or  I 
might  say  of  four,  so  much  as  to  talk  to.  I feel  I 
am  living  to-night,’^  she  added,  in  a more  lively 
tone,  “because  Mab  has  been  with  me  since  yester- 
day. But  otherwise — indeed  you  have  made  a very 
strange  mistake.” 

“It  is  you  who  are  mistaken,”  said  the  young 
rector,  warmly.  “The  rest  of  us  are  ghosts;  what 
are  we  all  doing?  The  good  people  up  there,”  and 
he  pointed  towards  the  Heath,  “myself,  almost  every- 
body I know?  living  for  ourselves  — living  to  get 
what  we  like  for  ourselves,  to  make  ourselves  com- 
fortable— to  improve  ourselves,  let  us  say,  which  is 
the  best  perhaps,  yet  despicable  like  all  the  rest. 
Self-love,  self-comfort,  self-importance,  self-culture, 
all  of  them  one  more  miserable,  more  petty  than 
the  other — even  self-culture,  which  in  my  time  I 
have  considered  divine.” 

“And  it  is,  I suppose,  isn’t  it?”  said  Cicely.  “It 
is  what  in  our  humble  feminine  way  is  called  im- 
proving the  mind.  I have  always  heard  that  was 
one  of  the  best  things  in  existence.” 

“Do  you  practise  it?”  he  asked,  almost  sharply. 

“Mr.  Mildmay,  you  must  not  be  hard  upon  me 
— how  can  I?  Yes,  I should  like  to  be  able  to  pass 
an  examination  and  get  a — what  is  it  called?  — 
dipldme^  the  French  say.  With  that  one’s  chances 
are  so  much  better,”  said  Cicely,  with  a sigh;  “but 
I have  so  little  time.” 

How  the  young  man’s  heart  swelled  in  the 
darkness ! 


THE  PARISH  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


305 


Self-culture/^  he  said,  with  a half  laugh,  “must 
be  disinterested,  I fear,  to  be  worthy  the  name.  It 
must  have  no  motive  but  the  advancement  of  your 
mind  for  your  own  sake.  It  is  the  culture  of  you 
for  you,  not  for  what  you  may  do  with  it.  It  is  a 
state,  not  a profession.^' 

“That  is  harder  upon  us  still,"  said  Cicely. 
“Alas!  I shall  never  be  rich  enough  nor  have  time 
enough  to  be  disinterested.  Good-night,  Mr.  Mild- 
may;  that  is  the  way  to  the  rectory." 

“Are  you  tired  of  me  so  soon?" 

“Tired  of  you?"  said  Cicely,  startled;  “oh  no! 
It  is  very  pleasant  to  talk  a little;  but  that  is  your 
way." 

“I  should  like  to  go  with  you  to  your  door, 
please,"  he  said;  “this  is  such  an  unusual  chance. 
Miss  St.  John,  poor  John  Wyborn  is  dying;  he  has 
four  children  and  a poor  little  wife,  and  he  is  just 
my  age." 

There  was  a break  in  the  rector's  voice  that 
made  Cicely  turn  her  face  towards  him  and  silently 
hold  out  her  hand. 

“What  am  I to  say  to  them?"  he  cried; 
“preach  patience  to  them?  tell  them  it  is  for  the 
best?  I who  am  not  worthy  the  poor  bread  I eat, 
who  live  for  myself,  in  luxury,  while  he — ay,  and 
you " 

“Tell  them,"  said  Cicely,  the  tears  dropping 
from  her  eyes,  “that  God  sees  all — that  comforts 
them  the  most;  that  He  will  take  care  of  the  little 
ones  somehow  and  bring  them  friends.  Oh,  Mr. 
Mildmay,  it  is  not  for  me  to  preach  to  you;  I know 

The  Curate  in  Charge.  20 


3o6  the  curate  in  charge. 

what  you  mean;  but  they,  poor  souls,  don’t  go 
thinking  and  questioning  as  we  do — and  that  com- 
forts them  the  most.  Besides,”  said  Cicely,  simply, 
‘‘it  is  true;  look  at  me — you  spoke  of  me.  See 
how  my  way  has  been  made  plain  for  me!  I did 
not  know  what  I should  do;  and  now  I can  manage 
very  well,  live,  and  bring  up  the  children;  and  after 
all  these  are  the  great  things,  and  not  pleasure,” 
she  added,  with  a soft  little  sigh. 

“The  children!”  he  said.  “There  is  something 
terrible  at  your  age  to  hear  you  speak  so.  Why 
should  you  be  thus  burdened — why?” 

“Mr.  Mildmay,”  said  Cicely,  proudly,  “one  does 
not  choose  one’s  own  burdens.  But  now  that  I 
have  got  mine  I mean  to  bear  it,  and  I do  not 
wish  to  be  pitied.  I am  able  for  all  I have 
to  do.” 

“Cicely!”  he  cried  out,  suddenly  interrupting 
her,  bending  low,  so  that  for  the  moment  she 
thought  he  was  on  his  knees,  “put  it  on  my  shoul- 
ders! See,  they  are  ready;  make  me  somebody  in 
life,  not  a mere  spectator.  What!  are  you  not  im- 
patient to  see  me  staiflding  by  looking  on  while  you 
are  working?  I am  impatient,  and  wretched,  and 
solitary,  and  contemptible.  Put  your  burden  on 
me,  and  see  if  I will  not  bear  it!  Don’t  leave  me 
a ghost  any  more!” 

“Mr.  Mildmay!”  cried  Cicely,  in  dismay.  She 
did  not  even  understand  what  he  meant  in  the  con- 
fusion of  the  moment.  She  gave  him  no  answer, 
standing  at  her  own  door,  alarmed  and  bewildered; 
but  only  entreated  him  to  leave  her,  not  knowing 


THE  PARISH  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

what  to  think.  ‘Tlease  go,  please  go;  I must  not 
ask  you  to  come  in,”  said  Cicely.  ‘‘Oh,  I know 
what  you  mean  is  kind,  whatever  it  is;  but  please, 
Mr.  Mildmay,  go!  Good-night!” 

“Good-night!”  he  said.  “I  will  go  since  you 
bid  me;  but  I will  come  back  to-morrow  for  my 
answer.  Give  me  a chance  for  life.” 

“What  does  he  mean  by  life?”  Cicely  said  to 
herself,  as,  trembling  and  amazed,  she  went  back 
into  her  bare  little  parlour,  which  always  looked 
doubly  bare  after  Mab  had  gone.  Annie  had  heard 
her  coming,  and  had  lighted  the  two  candles  on 
the  table;  but  though  it  was  still  cold,  there  was  no 
fire  in  the  cheerless  little  fireplace.  The  dark  walls, 
which  a large  cheerful  lamp  could  scarcely  have 
lit,  small  as  the  room  was,  stood  like  night  round 
her  little  table,  with  those  two  small  sparks  of  light. 
A glass  of  milk  and  a piece  of  bread  stood  ready 
on  a little  tray,  and  Annie  had  been  waiting  with 
some  impatience  her  young  mistress’s  return  in 
order  to  get  to  bed.  The  little  boys  were  asleep 
long  ago,  and  there  was  not  a sound  in  the  tiny 
house  as  Cicely  sat  down  to  think,  except  the  sound 
of  Annie  overhead,  which  did  not  last  long.  Life! 
Was  this  life,  or  was  he  making  a bad  joke  at  her 
expense?  What  did  he  mean?  It  would  be  im- 
possible to  deny  that  Cicely’s  heart  beat  faster  and 
faster  as  it  became  clearer  and  clearer  to  her  what 
he  did  mean;  but  to  talk  of  life!  Was  this  life — 
this  mean,  still,  solitary  place,  which  nobody 
shared,  which  neither  love  nor  fellowship  bright- 
ened? for  even  the  children,  though  she  devoted 


20 


3o8  I’HE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE, 

her  life  to  them,  made  no  warm  response  to  Ci- 
cely’s devotion.  She  sat  till  far  into  the  night 
thinking,  wondering,  musing,  dreaming,  her  heart 
beating,  her  head  buzzing  with  the  multitude  of 
questions  that  crowded  upon  her.  Life!  It  was  he 
who  was  holding  open  to  her  the  gates  of  life;  the 
only  life  she  knew,  but  more  attractive  than  she  had 
ever  known  it.  Cicely  was  as  much  bewildered  by 
the  manner  of  his  appeal  as  by  its  object.  Could 
he — love  her?  Was  that  the  plain  English  of  it? 
Or  was  there  any  other  motive  that  could  make 
him  desirous  of  taking  her  burden  upon  his  shoul- 
ders? Could  she,  if  a man  did  love  her,  suffer  him 
to  take  such  a weight  on  his  shoulders?  And  then 
— she  did  not  love  him.  Cicely  said  this  to  her- 
self faltering.  “No,  she  had  never  thought  of  lov- 
ing him.  She  had  felt  that  he  understood  her.  She 
had  felt  that  he  was  kind  when  many  had  not  been 
kind.  There  had  been  between  them  rapid  com- 
munications of  sentiment,  impulses  flashing  from 
heart  to  heart,  which  so  often  accompany  very  close 
relations.  But  all  is  not  being  in  love,’’  Cicely 
said  to  herself.  Nothing  could  have  taken  her 
more  utterly  by  surprise;  but  the  surprise  had  been 
given,  the  shock  received.  Its  first  overpowering 
sensation  was  over,  and  now  she  had  to  look  for- 
ward to  the  serious  moment  when  this  most  serious 
thing  must  be  settled,  and  her  reply  given. 

Cicely  did  not  sleep  much  that  night.  She  did 
not  know  very  well  what  she  was  doing  next 
morning,  but  went  through  her  work  in  a dazed 
condition,  fortunately  knowing  it  “well  enough  to 


THE  PARISH  SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


309 


go  on  mechanically,  and  preserving  her  composure 
more  because  she  was  partially  stupefied  than  for 
any  other  reason.  Mr.  Mildmay  was  seen  on  the 
road  by  the  last  of  the  little  scholars  going  away, 
who  made  him  little  bobs  of  curtsies,  and  of  whom 
he  asked  where  Miss  St.  John  was? 

‘‘Teacher’s  in  the  school-room,”  said  one  un- 
pleasant little  girl. 

“Please,  sir,”  said  another,  with  more  grace  or 
genius,  “Miss  Cicely  ain’t  come  out  yet.  She’s 
a-settling  of  the  things  for  to-morrow.” 

Upon  this  young  woman  the  rector  bestowed  a 
sixpence  and  a smile.  And  then  he  went  into  the 
school-room,  the  place  she  had  decided  to  receive 
him  in.  The  windows  were  all  open,  the  desks  and 
forms  in  disorder,  the  place  as  mean  and  bare  as 
could  be,  with  the  maps  and  bright-coloured 
pictures  of  animal  history  on  the  unplastered  walls. 
Cicely  stood  by  her  own  table,  which  was  covered 
with  little  piles  of  plain  needle-work,  her  hand 
resting  upon  the  table,  her  heart  beating  loud. 
What  was  she  to  say  to  him?  The  truth  somehow, 
such  as  it  really  was;  but  how? 

But  Mr.  Mildmay  had  first  a great  deal  to  say. 
He  gave  her  the  history  of  his  life  since  August, 
and  the  share  she  had  in  it.  He  thought  now,  and 
said,  that  from  the  very  first  day  of  his  arrival  in 
Brentburn,  when  she  looked  at  him  like  an  enemy, 
what  he  was  doing  now  had  come  into  his  mind; 
and  on  this  subject  he  was  eloquent,  as  a man  has 
a right  to  be  once  in  his  life,  if  no  more.  He  had 
so  much  to  say,  that  he  forgot  the  open  public 


310 


THE  CURATE  IN  CHARGE. 


place  m which  he  was  telling  his  love-tale,  and 
scarcely  remarked  the  little  response  she  made.  But 
when  it  came  to  her  turn  to  reply,  Cicely  found 
herself  no  less  impassioned,  though  in  a different 
way. 

“Mr.  Mildmay,”  she  said,  “there  is  no  equality 
between  us.  How  can  you,  such  a man  as  you, 
speak  like  this  to  a girl  such  as  I am?  Don^t  you 
see  what  you  are  doing — holding  open  to  me  the 
gates  of  Paradise;  offering  me  back  all  I have  lost; 
inviting  me  to  peace  out  of  trouble,  to  rest  out  of 
toil,  to  ease  and  comfort,  and  the  respect  of  the 
world.^^ 

“Cicely!’^  he  said;  he  was  discouraged  by  her 
tone.  He  saw  in  it  his  own  fancy  thrown  back  to 
him,  and  for  the  first  time  perceived  how  fantastic 
that  was.  “You  do  not  mean,”  he  said,  faltering, 
“that  to  work  hard  as  you  are  doing,  and  give  up 
all  the  pleasure  of  existence,  is  necessary  to  your — 
your — satisfaction  in  your  life?” 

“I  don't  mean  that,”  she  said  simply;  “but 
when  you  offer  to  take  up  my  burden,  and  to  give 
me  all  your  comforts,  don't  you  see  that  one  thing 
— one  great  thing — is  implied  to  make  it  possible? 
Mr.  Mildmay,  I am  not — in  love  with  you,”  she 
added,  in  a low  tone,  looking  up  at  him,  the  colour 
flaming  over  her  face. 

He  winced,  as  if  he  had  received  a blow;  then 
recovering  himself  smiled.  “I  think  I have  enough 
for  two,”  he  said,  gazing  at  her,  as  pale  as  she  was 
red. 

“But  don't  you  see,  don't  you  see,”  cried  Cicely 


K 


THE  PARISH  SCHOOLMISTRESS.  31I 

passionately,  ‘‘if  it  was  you,  who  are  giving  every- 
thing, that  was  not  in  love,  it  would  be  simple;  but 
I who  am  to  accept  everything,  who  am  to  put 
burdens  on  you,  weigh  you  down  with  others  be- 
side myself,  how  can  I take  it  all  without  loving 
you?  You  see — you  see  it  is  impossible!” 

“Do  you  love  any  one  else?”  he  asked,  too 
much  moved  for  grace  of  speech,  taking  the  hand 
she  held  up  to  demonstrate  this  impossibility.  She 
looked  at  him  again,  her  colour  wavering,  her  eyes 
filling,  her  lips  quivering. 

“Unless  it  is  you — nobody!”  she  said. 


THE  END. 


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